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ELSIE   MAG  0  ON. 


• 


ELSIE  MAaOON 


OR 


THE  OLD  STILL-HOUSE  IN  THE  HOLLOW. 


^  S^al^  0(  th^  last. 


BY 

MRS.  FRANCES  DANA  GAGE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO. 

1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

MRS.  F.  D.  GAGE, 

in  the  Clerk's  OfBce  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 

District  of  New  Jersey. 


(ii) 


r 


DEDICATION. 


TO    THE 

(Jfrt^nds  of  ifcmpcrance. 

i  commend  my  humble  volume,  with  an  earnest 

hope  aitd  prayer,  that  he  who  hears  the 

raven's  cry  and  marks  the  sparrow's 

fall,  may  make  it,  in  their 

hands,  a  means 

OF  GOOD. 

THE   AUTHOR. 


(^) 


2051419 


PREFACE. 


The  story  of  Elsie  Magoon  was  written  some 
years  ago,  at  the  request  of  a  friend  who  was  strug- 
gling to  aid  the  cause  of  Temperance  on  the  borders 
of  the  Mississippi.  Believing  then,  as  now,  that  no 
fiction  can  be  wrought  by  the  imagination  equal  in 
intensity  of  romance  to  the  every-day  realities  of 
common  life,  I  collected  a  few  incidents  which  were 
stored  in  my  memory,  and  wove  them  together  with 
a  thread  of  narrative ;  adding  little  to  the  facts,  but 
changing  names  and  localities,  lest  the  actors,  or 
their  descendants,  should  be  recognized  by  their 
neighbors,  even  at  this  late  day. 

In  the  character  of  Elsie  Magoon,  I  have  en- 
deavored to  portray  a  true  woman,  filling  her  place 
as  wife,  mother,  and  member  of  society.  Such  wives 
and  mothers  are  the  great  need  of  the  age. 

(Tii) 


ELSIE   MAG  DON; 

OR, 

THE    OLD   STILL-HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MAYBE  I  ain't  tired ! "  said  Richard  Magoon, 
as  he  threw  himself  down  upon  the  threshold 
of  his  log-cabin,  one  of  the  first  warm  days  of  April, 
fanning  himself  vigorously  with  his  straw  hat  and 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?"  asked  his  wife,  who 
sat  near,  nursing  a  beautiful  babe  of  a  year  old. 

"  Cutting  timber  in  the  Narrows." 

"  I  thought  you  had  cleared  all  the  land  you  wished 
to  plant  this  year." 

"  So  I  have ;  but  I  wanted  some  building-timber." 

"  Building-timber !  Now  the  barn  and  wood-shed, 
the  poultry-houses,  and  sheep-fold  are  built,  you  ought 
to  rest  one  season." 

"  I  know ;  but  I  am  in  debt.  When  I  borrowed 
that  five  hundred  dollars  of  your  step-father,  I  ex- 
pected that  I  should  have  paid  it  off  before  this  time ; 
but  I  find  that  a  debt  is  like  a  snow-ball,  gathers  as 
it  goes," — and  Eichard  cast  his  eye  at  the  huge  piles 

(9) 


10  EL  SIE   MA  GOO  N;    O  R, 

of  snow  that  lay  down  in  the  yard,  slowly  melting 
beneath  a  spring  sun. 

"Yes,  like  a  snow-ball  it  gathers,"  replied  the  wife, 
"  and  like  a  snow-ball  our  means  will  melt  away,  and 
leave  us  nothing,  I'm  afraid,  by-and-by,  to  show  for 
all  our  years  of  privation  and  care." 

"That's  a  fact,  Elsie," — and  Richard  sprang  ner- 
vously from  his  reclining  posture,  and  fanned  himself 
more  vigorously, —  "that's  a  fact,  and  if  I  don't  go 
at  something  better  than  I  've  been  doing  these  years 
past,  I  may  as  well  quit,  for  I  don't  make  the  two  ends 
of  the  year  meet,  nohow." 

"  Oh !  you  must  not  get  discouraged,  Richard.  You 
know  we  have  got  a  great  many  things  done  that  won't 
be  to  do  over  again — clearing  and  fencing,  and  put- 
ting out  the  orchard,  and  building.  The  orchard  is 
beginning  to  bear;  you  have  some  nice  stock  coming 
on;  a  fine  flock  of  sheep ;  and  four  colts  that  will  soon 
be  fit  for  market,  besides  the  old  horses ;  and  such  nice 
fat  hogs !  I  am  sure,  Richard,  you  can  begin  to  pay 
something  this  fall,  if  you  don't  go  to  building  any 
more,  to  take " 

"  That's  just  Avhat  I  want  to  build  for,  to  help  my- 
self out  of  this  fix  !  I  've  a  thousand  bushels  of  corn 
on  hand.  Every  neighbor  has  more  than  he  can  sell, 
and  it's  all  going  to  waste  for  want  of  a  market.  Old 
Deacon  Hill  was  along  last  week,  and  has  been  advis- 
ing me  to  build  a  'Still-house,'  and  go  to  making 
whiskey.  We  can't  take  the  corn  down  the  river, 
and  there's  no  sale  here;  but  we  can  sell  all  the 
whiskey  we  can  make,  at  a  good  profit ;  besides,  the 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  11 

slop  will  fat  my  hogs ;  and  so  I  can  turn  my  farm  and 
labor  into  cash  quicker,  than  in  any  other  way.  I 
just  made  up  my  mind  I'd  do  it,  and  we  Ve  got  the 
logs  nearly  all  ready." 

"Oh,  Richard!  I  wouldn't.  A  ^Still-house'  is 
always  a  dreadful  thing  in  a  neighborhood.  Don't 
you  remember " 

"  It 's  no  use  talking,  Elsie !  I  mtist  do  that,  or 
worse.  That  debt  has  got  to  be  paid,  and  I  never  can 
do  it  by  raising  corn  at  ten  cents  a  bushel,  or  feeding 
pork  for  a  cent-and-a-half  a  pound ;  and  that 's  the 
best  I  can  do.  Besides,  I  don't  see  what  objection  you 
can  have  to  a  '  Still-house.'  I  shall  see  to  it  myself, 
and  keep  it  straight." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  Richard ;  you  think  so  now, 
— but  somehow, — well,  I  don't  know.  But  it  seems 
to  me  I  would  n't  try  it."  She  paused,  as  if  she  dared 
not  put  into  words  the  fear  that  fell  upon  her. 

Poor  Elsie  Magoon !  how  her  pale  cheek  grew 
paler,  there  in  the  moonlight,  as  she  looked  down 
upon  the  noble  form  of  her  husband.  Shadows  wild 
and  fearful  flitted  before  her — shadows  that  made  her 
blood  chill,  and  prompted  her  to  press  her  babe  closer 
to  her  heart, — shadows  that  made  her  tongue  stammer, 
and  the  thoughts  to  come  and  go,  struggling  for  utter- 
ance, and  yet  not  to  be  spoken. 

"  Well,  it 's  no  use  arguing  the  matter.  I  see  no 
other  chance  to  get  out  of  a  bad  scrape.  I  have  made 
my  bargain  with  Wright  to  do  the  coopering  work, 
and  with  Thompson  to  build  the  chimneys,  and  witii 
Samson  to  come  and  set  it  in  operation,  and  do  the 


12  ELSIE   M AGO  ON;    OR, 

millwright  work  for  a  horse-mill ;  and  it  is  to  be  com- 
pleted by  the  fourth  of  July.  I  bought  Crane's  mill- 
works,  over  on  the  creek.  He  was  n't  able  to  rebuild 
his  dam,  after  the  fall  rains  washed  it  out.  So  I  've 
nothing  to  do  but  put  up  the  building  and  move  over 
the  machinery  and  set  it  a-going ;  and  I  want  you  to 
get  ready  for  a  raising  a  week  from  to-morrow;  it 
will  be  a  heavy  job." 

"  Oh,  Richard !  why  did  you  not  tell  me  about  it 
before  you  went  so  far?" 

"  Because  I  was  determined  to  do  it ;  for,  live  this 
way,  pinched  to  death  for  means  to  get  along,  and 
never  having  the  satisfaction  of  saying,  '  I  owe  no 
man  anything,'  I  won't ;  so  there 's  '  the  word  with 
the  bark  on';"  and  Richard  rose  with  a  bound,  went 
down  to  the  gate,  and  with  a  loud  voice  called  in  his 
sheep  to  the  fold. 

There  were  few  finer-looking  men  in  the  land  than 
Richard  Magoon.  He  was  not  what  the  novelist 
would  call  a  "  handsome  man,"  but  his  was  a  noble 
splendor  that  attracted  one  more  than  beauty.  Six 
feet  two  inches  he  stood  among  men ;  finely  propor- 
tioned, and  full  of  athletic  vigor.  His  face  was  florid, 
yet  free  from  freckles ;  liis  eye  of  the  kindliest  gray, 
his  hair  a  dark  brown,  soft,  curly,  and  brilliant  as  a 
woman's ;  his  voice  full  and  rich,  yet  sweet  and  sooth- 
ing ;  and  a  truer  or  kinder  heart  than  Richard  Ma- 
goon's,  never  throbbed  beneath  a  blue  hunting-shirt 
of  a  good-wife's  spinning.  While  he  leads  his  flock  of 
forty  fat  sheep  to  the  ample  log-fold,  we  will  tell  you 
of  Elsie,  his  wife,  the  heroine  of  our  tale  of  the  past. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  13 

We  have  called  her  beautiful, —  and  beautiful  she 
was,  with  her  brilliant  complexion,  her  deep  blue 
eyes,  and  flowing,  auburn  locks, — and  the  radiance 
of  a  loving  soul,  flooding  every  feature. 

But  it  was  not  the  beauty  of  Elsie  Magoon, —  it 
was  her  native  good  sense,  her  high  morality,  her 
untiring  patience  and  courage, — which  made  her  the 
"bright,  particular  star"  of  the  neighborhood;  the 
one  sought  after  in  all  emergencies,  for  advice  and 
counsel,  for  aid  and  comfort,  by  the  wives  and  mothers 
whose  fate  had  been  cast,  like  hers,  amid  the  trials  and 
privations  of  frontier  life. 

Both  the  farmer  and  his  wife  were  natives  of  Massa- 
chusetts, and  had  brought  with  them  to  their  new 
home  the  sterling  virtues  and  indomitable  force  of 
will  and  character,  native  to  the  air  of  their  beloved 
State.  They  were  called  "educated"  people  in  those 
times — that  is,  they  possessed  a  good  knowledge  of 
the  common  English  branches  taught  in  the  rude 
school-houses  which  then  dotted  the  hillsides  and  hol- 
lows of  New  England ;  and  in  which  the  stimulus  of 
birch  generously  supplied  any  deficiency  in  the  mental 
appetite; — they  used  their  mother-tongue  without  the 
vulgarisms  of  phrase  and  pronunciation  which  so 
often  render  the  Yankee  dialect  in  the  mouth  of  the 
untaught  native,  ludicrous  to  "ears  polite." 

The  cabin  of  the  Magoons,  made  of  rough  logs, 
stood  upon  the  banks  of  a  beautiful  stream  in  the 
interior  of  Ohio,  called  by  the  aborigines  "  Wahoo." 
It  wound  through  a  wide  valley  hemmed  in  on 
either  side  by  hills,  having  a  rich  soil,  and  a  not 
2 


14  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

inhospitable  climate.  After  the  first  settlement  was 
made,  emigration  began  to  pour  rapidly  in  upon  the 
new  colony,  and  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  mill 
grew  every  day  more  frightful  to  the  timid  denizens 
of  the  forest,  w4io  had  hitherto  held  undisputed  sway 
of  its  fastnesses  and  solitudes,  except  as  the  Indian 
hunter  now  and  then  intruded  upon  them  with  the 
twang  of  his  bow,  or  the  crack  of  his  rifle. 

Richard  Magoon  was  twenty-eight  years  of  age  — 
his  wife  but  twenty -four.  They  had  taken  the  advice 
of  Dr.  Franklin,  and  married  early — he  at  twenty- 
one;  she,  in  the  girlish  days  of  seventeen.  Seven 
years  they  had  been  toiling  together  on  their  farm. 
The  "  old  man,"  of  whom  the  money  was  loaned,  was 
Elsie's  step-father ;  and  the  money  thus  loaned  to  the 
husband  of  his  dead  wife's  child,  was  money  that  had 
belonged  to  the  mother, — the  gift  of  her  kind  old 
grandfather, — but  which  had  become  the  step-father's 
by  marriage ;  and  thus  the  money  which  the  mother 
would  have  given  to  her  only  daughter,  and  which 
could  have  been  spared  from  the  rich  man's  purse 
and  not  have  been  missed, — was  only  lent,  at  heavy 
interest,  to  her  husband,  through  the  mother's  earnest 
intercession.  Now  that  the  mother  was  gone,  the  self- 
ish man  added  interest  to  interest,  making  the  burden 
of  his  wife's  children  heavy  and  oppressive. 

Elsie  watched  the  receding  form  of  her  noble  hus- 
band till  it  was  lost  to  her  in  the  obscurity  of  the 
night.  Then,  slowly  rising  from  her  chair,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  she  laid  her  sleeping  babe  in  the  rude 
cradle,  and,  stooping  over  it,  left  a  kiss  upon  its  fair 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  15 

brow,  as  she  breathed  forth  a  mother's  anxious  solici- 
tude in  the  words,  "  God  help  thee,  my  poor  child ! " 
Why  she  spoke  thus  she  could  not  tell ;  or  wherefore 
the  deep  foreboding  that  had  so  suddenly  shrouded 
her  spirit  in  gloom. 

"  Oh !  it  is  hard,"  said  Elsie,  as  she  turned  away 
from  the  cradle  to  light  a  candle  from  a  glowing  coal 
upon  the  hearth;  "hard  to  think  that  my  mother 
should  toil  as  she  did,  thirty  years  in  that  house,  that 
was  all  hers,  when  he  came  there;  that  the  money 
grandfather  meant  for  her  children  should  become  his. 
Hard,  that  money,  home,  labor,  all  are  now  his,  and 
we  must  be  so  oppressed ;  when,  if  she  had  owned  any- 
thing, or  been  anything  but  a  slave,  she  would  freely 
have  given  me,  her  only  child,  this  little  portion. 
Now,  it  will  all  go — home,  and  all — to  his  haughty 
relatives.  Well !  it  can't  be  helped.  But  it  seems  to 
me  it's  very  wrong." 

Elsie  picked  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  blew  it  into 
a  blaze,  and  lighted  her  candle.  Just  then  Richard 
came  in.  Seeing  her  troubled  look,  and  the  tears 
struggling  in  her  lustrous  eyes,  he  stepped  up  to  her, 
looking  tenderly  in  her  face,  and  said,  "  Don't  be  trou- 
bled, Elsie ;  all  shall  go  right  for  your  sake." 

And  the  two  sat  down  by  their  home-table,  to  chat 
away  the  evening  hour.  For  they  obeyed  the  injunc- 
tion of  St.  Paul ;  —  he  loved  his  wife  even  as  himself; 
and  she  "reverenced"  her  husband.  Their  days  were 
given  to  necessary  toil,  but  their  evenings  to  each 
other. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  soft,  clear  April-weather,  that  had  set  the 
bluebirds  twittering,  and  brought  out  the  violets 
and  anemones  by  the  brook-side,  and  the  sweat-drops 
upon  the  brow  of  Richard  Magoon,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  our  story, — had  passed  away,  ere  the  day  came 
for  the  raising  of  the  "  Still-house ; "  and  in  its  place 
were  cold,  scowling  skies,  and  bitter  frost,  covering 
the  earth  with  frozen  sleet  and  snow, 

"  Had  you  not  better  put  it  off,  Richard,  for  a  few 
days?"  asked  Elsie,  as  she  looked  out  at  the  cheerless 
prospect. 

"jN^o;  I  could  not  send  round  word  now;  and  half 
of  them  would  be  here,  in  spite  of  my  efforts,  if  I  were 
to  try.  Besides,  Stillman  raises  his  barn  next  Satur- 
day, and  the  farmers  are  too  busy  to  lose  more  than 
one  day  in  a  week.  It 's  a  bad  day,  and  no  mistake ; 
but  I  must  put  up  with  it; — there's  no  help  for  it 
now." 

"  Where  is  Joe  going  with  the  horses  ? " 

"  Down  to  the  Ford,"  said  Richard,  looking  every 
way  but  at  his  wife,  and  working  at  his  teeth  ear- 
nestly with  a  splinter. 

"  What  for  ? "  asked  Elsie,  in  a  troubled  voice. 

Richard  did   not   answer.     At  that  moment  Joe 

emerged  from  the  shed,  with  a  keg  that  might  have 

held  five  gallons,  and  placed  it  in  the  wagon. 

(16) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  17 

"  Richard,"  said  Elsie,  with  a  firm  voice,  laying  her 
hand  impressively  upon  his  shoulder,  "  don't  do  tliat. 
It 's  a  cold  day,  and  if  you  get  whiskey  among  those 
men,  there  will  be  trouble.  You  know  what  Truman, 
and  Smith,  and  Sheldon  are.  Why  will  you  yield  to 
what  you  know  is  wrong,  and  run  the  risk  of  having 
your  own  work  spoiled,  and  perhaps  somebody  killed 
or  maimed  for  life.  Oh  !  it  is  terrible  to  give  whiskey 
to  these  men  at  raisings, — it  always " 

"Well,  Elsie,  it's  no  use  talking  now.  You've 
opposed  me  from  the  first,  every  step  I've  taken. 
I've  trouble  enough  without  so  much  opposition 
from  you.  You  know  the  men  won't  work  without 
whiskey,  and  it  would  be  a  great  idea  for  me  to  ask 
them  here  to  help  build  a  'Still-house,'  and  then  go 
to  preaching  about  their  letting  whiskey  alone  ! " 

When  one  step  toward  wrong  is  taken,  we  must 
either  retrace  it,  or  take  the  next.  To  stand  still  is 
seldom  possible.  Richard  had  determine^  on  doing 
what  his  own  conscience  condemned,  and  he  could  not 
bear  that  Elsie  should  prick  his  sensitiveness  to  the 
quick,  with  truths  against  which  he  had  no  argument. 
Elsie  turned  away  with  a  sad  heart.  He  had  never 
spoken  so  unkindly  to  her  before.  "She  had  opposed 
him  from  the  first."  So  she  had.  How  could  she  do 
otherwise,  when  she  felt  that  only  evil  could  come  of 
his  plan  ?  And  yet  she  must  seem  to  acquiesce ;  or, 
at  least  learn  to  keep  silence,  and  let  the  wrong  go  on, 
lest  she  should  arouse  within  her  own  household  a 
spirit  of  antagonism  that  would  turn  all  the  sweet 
waters  of  life  into  bitterness.  So  with  her  customary 
2* 


18  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

light  step,  but  a  heavy  heart,  she  turned  to  her  work. 
According  to  the  usual  customs  on  such  occasions, 
Elsie  had  asked  the  assistance  of  the  wives  of  several 
of  her  nearest  neighbors  in  preparing  the  dinner  and 
supper,  for  the  husbands  who  were  to  take  part  in 
"  the  raising."  And,  as  Richard  turned  to  leave  the 
house,  Mrs.  Smith  and  Mrs.  Sheldon  appeared,  and 
received  a  neighborly  welcome. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Sheldon  —  Good  morning, 
Mrs.  Smith.  This  is  a  disagreeable  morning  for  you 
to  turn  out.  I  hardly  expected  either  of  you.  I  'm 
sure  I  ought  to  be  obliged  to  you  for  coming  over." 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  be  much  obleeged  to  me,  no- 
how," said  Mrs.  Smith,  a  little,  dapper  woman,  in  a 
home-made,  butternut-colored  linsey  dress,  and  clean 
blue-and-white  checked  apron  of  her  own  siiinning. 
"You  may  just  thank  my  old  man,  for  I'd  never 
come  anigh  to  help  raise  a  '  Still-house,'  if  he  had  n't 
a-said  I  should.  But  he  promised  he  'd  take  me  down 
to  the  Ford  next  week,  and  let  me  sell  my  dried" 
apples,  and  git  some  things  for  myself.  You  know 
Judge  Bryant  let  me  dry  all  the  windfalls  me  and  the 
children  could  tote,  last  fall ;  and  I  've  kep'  them  all 
winter,  just  'cause  I  couldn't  git  to  go  down.  He 
says  Miller  is  giving  three-quarters  of  a  dollar  a 
bushel  now  for  real  good  ones;  and  I  know  there 
ain't  none  better  than  mine." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  let  Tom  Gifford  take  'em  in  the 
fall?"  asked  Mrs.  Sheldon. 

"  Well,  just  'cause  I  could  n't  git  'em  down." 

"  But  Mr.  Smith  went  down  so  often,"  said  Elsie. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  19 

"Yes,  he  went  down  nigh  onto  every  day,  and 
could  have  taken  'em  just  as  well  as  not;  but  if  he 
had,  not  a  red  copper  would  I  ever  'a'  got ;  and  I 
worked  too  hard  for  them  there  apples,  to  let  him 
drink  'em  all  up  in  whiskey,  I  tell  you." 

A  cold  chill  swept  over  Elsie. 

"  Well,  now  we're  here,  set  us  to  work  ;  we  did  n't 
come  over  to  set  round,"  said  Mrs.  Sheldon.  A  pile 
of  squirrels  and  quails,  which^Richard's  unerring 
rifle  had  brought  down  the  day  before,  were  to  be 
prepared  for  a  pie ;  a  huge  turkey  lay  by  the  door, 
to  be  made  ready  for  the  workmen.  Pies  were  to  be 
made,  and  bread  prepared  for  the  brick  oven  that  was 
being  heated  in  the  yard ;  and  soon  the  active  hands 
of  the  women  were  at  work. 

"When  did  you  hear  from  Mrs.  Truman?"  said 
Mrs.  Sheldon,  as  the  two  sat  by  the  fire,  paring  apples 
for  pies. 

"  I  was  down  there  last  night,  and  she 's  mighty 
bad,  I  tell  you.  Oh !  but  it 's  dreadful  to  live  with 
that  man.  Her  face  is  all  black,  and  her  back  is  that 
lame  she  can't  turn  herself  in  her  bed,  where  he  beat 
her." 

"  He  beat  her !  Why,  I  heard  she  fell  down  the 
steps." 

"  Yes,  that 's  what  she  told ;  but  Sally  told  me  that 
Truman  come  home  high,  and  went  to  whipping  little 
John ;  and  she  took  his  part,  and  then  he  fell  on  her 
and  beat  her  pretty  nigh  to  death,  and  would  'a'  killed 
her,  if  Sally  had  n't  thrown  a  blanket  over  his  head, 
till  Mrs.  Truman  ran  into  the  smoke-house  and  locked 


20  ELSIE  MAGOON;     OR, 

herself  in,  and  he  did  n't  know  where  she'd  gone ;  so 
he  just  swore  hisself  to  sleep,  and  then  she  come  in 
and  got  into  bed ;  and  she 's  not  been  out  since,  poor 
thing ! " 

"  Oh  !  what  a  dreadful  thing  this  '  Still-house ' 
will  be,"  said  Mrs.  Sheldon,  leaning  over  and  whis- 
pering to  her  neighbor,  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"  It  will  be  just  that ;  and  if  I  was  Elsie  Magoon, 
I  'd  put  a  stop  to  it." 

"  She  can't  do  it,  Mrs.  Smith.  That  Richard 
Magoon  has  an  awful  will  of  his  own ;  and  it 's  my 
'pinion  that,  if  she  was  to  say  much,  he  'd  be  setter 
in  his  way  than  he  is  now.  She 's  mightily  troubled — 
I  can  see  that  in  her  looks ;  but  we  mus'n't  let  on  — 
it  will  make  her  more  so ;  and,  dear  knows,  she 's 
feeling  bad  enough  ! " 

Thus  the  women  chatted  on  in  an  undertone.  The 
forenoon  passed ;  a  capital  dinner  graced  the  humble 
board.  The  wind  had  softened,  the  sun  came  out; 
and  the  ice  and  snow  fell  from  the  logs,  leaving  them 
in  a  slippery  and  dangerous  condition. 

Thirty  men  had  gathered  for  the  work.  They 
were  men,  for  the  most  part,  of  strong  hands  and 
willing  hearts,  and  the  work  went  on  with  straight- 
forward regularity.  Log  after  log  was  rolled  up,  not- 
withstanding their  bad  condition,  by  the  main  strength 
of  bones  and  muscles.  No  machinery  helped  their 
weary  labors ;  and  when  Elsie  sounded  the  horn  for 
dinner,  the  building  was  up  to  the  second  story,  and 
all  counted  it  a  good  job  done. 

As  they  gathered  to  dinner,  it  was  easy  to  be  seen 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  21 

that  a  part  of  the  company  were  merrier  than  the 
natural  flow  of  spirits  would  induce.  Smith,  Shel- 
don, and  Truman,  especially,  were  in  a  high  state  of 
exhilaration.  They  were  among  the  stoutest  men  in 
the  township — big,  brawny,  sensual,  and  proud  of 
their  physical  proportions ;  and  in  the  rude  sports  of 
the  backwoods  always  first.  At  the  raisings  too,  they 
did  the  work  of  giants,  and  their  prowess  and  strength 
were  rewarded  by  a  double  portion  of  what,  in  those 
days,  waa  esteemed  the  greatest  "treat"  that  could  be 
bestowed' — the  favorite  whiskey-punch,  or  egg-nog. 

Smifli  and  Sheldon  were  not  habitual  drunkards, 
although  they  were  occasionally  found  "the  worse  for 
liquor."  But  Truman,  the  giant  of  the  trio,  had  of 
late  become  a  daily  victim  to  the  fearful  habit,  and 
the  sun  seldom  went  down  upon  him  a  sober  man. 
At  dinner,  he  was  uproarious  in  his  fun,  and  laughed, 
talked,  sung,  shouted,  and  kept  the  table  in  a  roar  of 
mirth. 

"  That  Truman  is  as  drunk  as  a  fool,"  said  Mrs. 
Smith  to  Elsie,  as  they  were  cutting  up  the  pies  at  a 
side-table ;  "  and,  between  you  and  I,  Smith  is  as 
high  as  a  cat's  back.  Oh!  there'll  be  awful  times 
afore  night,  for  when  Truman  is  so,  he  always  wants 
to  fight." 

Elsie's  lip  quivered,  but  she  choked  down  her 
emotion,  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"Hurrah,  boys!"  shouted  Truman.  "Don't  eat 
all  day.  Three  cheers  for  Mrs.  Magoon's  pies,  and 
then  come  along." 

The  cheers,  loud  and  long,  were  given,  and  fell 


22  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

upon  Elsie's  ear  like  an  insult.  To  think  that  she 
should  be  cheered  by  a  set  of  noisy  topers ! 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  With  every  tier  of  logs 
their  work  became  harder,  their  nerves  and  muscles 
more  weary ;  and  large  draughts  were  made  by  many 
of  the  party  from  the  keg,  in  the  hope  of  gaining  the 
needed  vigor 

About  four  o'clock  a  dispute  arose,  as  to  the  com- 
parative strength  of  Truman  and  a  new-cofoer  in 
the  neighborhood,  named  Scott.  A  wrestling  match 
was  proposed.  In  vain  Richard  begged  them  not  to 
spend  their  force  in  fiin,  and  insisted  that  both  were 
strong,  and  had  done  well ;  but  sides  were  taken  for 
both  parties,  and  all  hands  stood  still  to  see  the 
contest. 

Scott  was  a  broad-shouldered,  active  fellow,  sober, 
and  many  years  the  junior  of  Truman,  who  was  al- 
ready staggering  with  liquor.  The  trial  of  strength 
did  not  last  an  instant ;  with  quick  energy  and  action, 
Scott  lifted  his  antagonist  off  his  feet  and  laid  him 
prostrate,  while  a  loud  shout  of  triumph  went  up 
from  one  side,  and  a  hiss  of  derision  from  the  other. 
In  a  moment  Truman  was  on  his  feet,  and,  M^ith 
clenched  fist,  glaring  eyes,  and  the  maddened  fury  of 
a  maniac,  pitched  upon  Scott,  who  stood  with  his 
back  to  him,  and  with  one  blow  felled  him  to  the 
ground.  A  melee  ensued,  and,  for  a  few  moments, 
the  fight  seemed  to  become  general.  But,  luckily, 
there  were  sober  ones  enough  to  quell  the  tumult  aud 
command  peace. 

Truman  and  Scott  went  back  "to  their  work  reluc- 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  23 

tantly,  Truman  muttering,  tiiat  "  he  'd  fix  him  before 
night." 

The  building  was  nearly  finished  —  the  last  heavy 
log  was  being  rolled  up ;  all  hands  were  striving  to 
do  their  utmost.  The  loud  "  heave  ho  "  cheered  them. 
"  Stick  to  it,  boys !  up  with  her !  there  she  goes ! 
heave  ho !  once  more,  my  hearties ! "  One  effort  more 
would  have  laid  the  ponderous  log  in  its  place.  One 
effort  more,  and  the  walls  of  the  'Still-house'  would 
have  been  completed.  At  that  critical  moment,  when 
every  nerve  was  strained,  and  every  hand  doing  its 
best,  the  heavy  lever  of  Truman  slipped  from  its 
place  and  fell  with  its  whole  weight  upon  the  hands 
of  his  next  neighbor,  who  let  go  his  hold  with  a  cry 
of  pain.  The  log  began  to  slide.  There  was  not 
force  enough  to  sustain  it.  Eyes  were  turned  aside 
to  see  what  was  the  matter ;  the  equilibrium  was  lost, 
and  in  an  instant  down  it  came,  crushing  all  in  its 
way. 

"  Out  of  the  way,  boys ! "  shouted  the  foreman,  and, 
springing  to  the  right  and  left,  all  escaped  but  one. 
Scott,  the  young  giant,  the  bold,  athletic  farmer,  who, 
seeing  the  danger,  strove  to  avert  it  to  the  last,  found 
it  impossible  to  get  away,  and  was  crushed  beneath 
the  ponderous  weight.  It  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment  to  extricate  him,  but  it  was  too  late.  One 
shriek  of  pain,  one  gasp  of  fearful  agony,  and  the 
eyes  rolled  back,  the  lips  quivered,  the  tongue  spoke 
the  words,  "Mary — wife,"  and  all  was  still. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Richard,  "he  is  dead." 

"  Yes,  by  G — d ! "  said  Truman,  "and  it's  just  what 


M  ELSIE    MA  GO  OX;    OR, 

I  meutt  to  do.  The  impudent  devil  has  got  his  pay ! 
I  knew  he  *d  hold  on  to  the  last,  and  I  let  go  my  hold 
on  purpose  to " 

"To  kill  us  all,  you  villain!"  cried  Richard, 
HBiniig  him  by  the  throat  and  hurling  him  out  of  the 
-waj, — while  he  rushed  to  the  aid  of  those  who  were 
Ufiu^  the  crushed  body  from  beneath  the  Ic^.  The 
enatonent  was  terrible, — and  while  the  calmer  among 
iheaoL  woe  waking  a  rude  bed  of  boughs  on  whidi  to 
lay  the  body  yet  quivering  with  death-throes,  the 
more  impulsive  were  for  lynching  Truman  upon  the 
spot.  Curses,  groans,  and  prayers  were  mingled  in 
sad  ccmfhsion,  A  messenger  had  run  to  the  house  of 
Ifa^ocm  fbr  camphor  and  bandages,  and,  bursting  in 
among  the  women,  cried  ont^  "Soott  is  killed ;  a  log 
fell  and  craved  him ;  he  did  n't  live  a  minute ;  Smith's 
bands  are  lHt>ken  to  pieces;  give  me  rags  and  camphor, 
quiii!" 

*  Scott  lived  upon  the  adjoining  &rm,  which  he  was 
josfe  dearing,  and  his  joong  wi&  had  come  over  to 
help  Elsie  in  getting  so^wr.  With  a  wild  shriek 
she  flew  to  the  scene  of  disaster,  threw  herself  upon 
the  mangled  body,  and  pressed  hex  bloodies  cheek* 
upon  his. 

"He  is  not  dead — no!  no! — he  shall  not  die. 
Hany!  Oh,  my  husband!  Good  Grod!  Do  9ome- 
l&n^ferhim!  Oh,can't  he  be  help^!  Wbodidit? 
What  did  it?  Ob,  Harry,  Harry,  speak  to  me  once 
—  oh !  just  once!" 

She  coidd  not  believe  him  dead;  and  her  toror, 
her  despair,  filled  every  eye  with  tears,  and  every 


w^ 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  25 

heart  with  anguish.  Elsie  came  and  stood  beside 
her,  pale  as  marble,  but  with  tearless  eyes.  One  look 
she  gave  to  Richard,  as  she  took  the  hand  of  poor 
Mary  in  hers ;  she  spoke  no  words ;  but,  "  your  own 
work  spoiled  and  somebody  killed  or  maimed  for  life," 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  words  of  doom.  Smith's 
hands  were  fearfully  crushed ;  the  bones  in  his  right 
hand  were  laid  bare  of  flesh,  and  broken  in  three  or 
four  places,  and  the  cords  and  sinews  severed  at  the 
wrist.  "  Maimed  for  life,"  and  he  the  father  of  a 
large  family !  Scott  was  dead,  and  Truman — what 
would  become  of  him  ?  All  this  passed,  in  an  instant, 
in  review  before  him,  and  he  groaned  aloud. 

Mary  clung  to  her  husband  until,  from  the  violence 
of  her  grief,  she  fell  in  convulsions  beside  him,  and 
was  carried  away  in  the  arms  of  the  men,  and  laid 
upon  the  bed  in  Richard's  cabin. 

Elsie  sat  all  night  by  the  moaning  young  wife,  who 
talked  and  prayed,  and  prayed  and  sung,  until,  worn 
and  exhausted,  she  slept, — only  to  awake  to  a  more 
fearful  consciousness  of  her  bereavement. 

"  Elsie,"  said  Richard,  as  the  crimson  glow  began 
.to  show  in  the  east,  "let  me  sit  and  watch  by  Mary, 
and  you  go  to  bed.  You  will  be  sick  with  your  hard 
day's  work,  watching,  and  excitement." 

"  Oh !  Richard,  promise  me — promise  me  that  you 
will  go  no  further  with  that  'Still-house.'  Give  it 
up,  and  we  may  get  over  all  this ;  go  on,  and  this  will 
be  but  the  beginning  of  an  end  which  we  cannot 
see."  And  she  threw  herself  sobbing  upon  his  bo- 
som, and  rested  her  weary  head  upon  his  shoulder, — 
3 


26  _    ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

her  stern   self-control   all  gone  at  the  sound  of  his 
kind  words. 

"  It  has  been  a  terrible  day,  Elsie ;  but  then  I  don't   ' 
see  as  it  was  my  fault,  particularly.     Everybody  uses 
whiskey,  and  you  can't  keep  such  men  as  Truman^ 
(  from  drinking ;  and  when  they  drink,  they  're  not  to  ^ 
be  trusted.     We  might  have  a  thousand  raisings,  and 
not  have  such  another  accident." 

"  Harry !  Harry !  Harry ! "  shrieked  INIary,  waking 
from  her  sleep.  "  They  said  he  was  killed — crushed 
under  the  log ! "  And  she  attempted  to  leap  from  the 
bed.  They  flew  to  the  side  of  the  poor  maniac,  and 
were  making  unsuccessful  efforts  to  quiet  her,  when 
old  "  Granny  Hall,"  the  Indian  "  doctor-woman,"  as 
she  was  called, —  who,  without  the  learning,  had  more 
native  skill  in  disease  than  many  a  diplomaed  M.D. 
of  our  times, —  came  in,  sent  by  a  neighbor  who  had 
a  superstitious  faith  in  her  power  over  all  the  "  ills 
that  flesh  is  heir  to." 

If  force  of  muscle  could  give  one  such  power,  she 
might,  without  fear  of  contradiction,  lay  claim  to  it; 
for  she  was  a  woman  of  proportions  so  huge  as  to 
afflict  with  fear  all  timid  folk.  Although  called  the 
Indian  Doctor-woman,  it  was  not  because  the  blood 
of  that  race  was  in  her  veins,  but  because  having  been 
carried  off  in  her  youth  from  a  frontier  settlement,"^ 
she  had  learned  during  her  seven  years  captivity 
f  among  them,  all  the  secrets  of  the  medical  art  in  their  ^ 
■  rude  hands ;  and  there  was  no  root  or  tree  of  the 
forest  whose  medicinal  virtues  were  unknown  to  her. 
The  hardy  life  of  these  children- of  Nature  had  brought 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  27 

to  its  fullest  development  the  frame  of  the  robust 
maiden.  Day  and  night,  storm  and  sunshine,  were 
alike  to  her;  nothing  appalled,  everything  seemed  to 
nourish  and  strengthen  her ;  and  now,  going  her 
rounds  before  the  day  had  fairly  dawned,  she  had 
found  herself  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  fearful 
disaster,  news  of  which  had  travelled  on  the  wings 
of  the  winds,  from  neighbor  to  neighbor. 

In  reply  to  her  knock  upon  the  outer  door,  Ihey  had 
bid  her  "  come  in," — and  her  large  figure  now  loomed 
up  in  the  early  morning  twilight,  until  she  looked 
powerful  enough  to  be  some  Genius  of  the  Forest, 
coming  to  lift  the  fearful  burden  of  suffering  from 
their  shoulders. 

"  Lord  bless  me !  Elsie  Magoon,  what^s  the  matter 
here?" 

"  Oh,  Granny  !  we  Ve  glad  to  see  you.  Pray  give 
this  poor  thing  something  to  put  her  to  sleep,  —  she 
raves  so ! " 

"  That  I  wall,  honey,  in  no  time ; "  and  without 
further  ceremony  the  old  woman  drew  a  tin  cup  from 
a  capacious  leathern  pocket  which  hung  at  her  side, 
raked  over  the  dying  coals  upon  the  hearth,  and 
forthwith  set  a  handful  of  leaves  steeping.  Then  she 
joined  Elsie  at  the  bedside,  and  laying  her  great,  cool 
palm  upon  the  fevered  brow,  seemed  as  if  by  magic, 
to  still  its  torture. 

The  decoction  was  soon  administered,  and  when 
Mary  had  sunk  into  quiet  slumber,  the  old  woman 
insisted  on  being  left  in  care  of  her,  while  Elsie 
should   rest.      "Now,  honey,"  said  the  rough  but 


28  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

kindly  voice,  "you  just  go  lie  down,  or  you'll  be 
■where  she  is  'fore  you  knows  it ;  go  right  'long, 
Granny  knows." 

Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  too  miserable  to  care  to 
oppose  the  well-meant  command,  Elsie  threw  herself 
upon  a  couch.  But  not  to  sleep.  Scene  after  scene 
of  that  fearful  drama,  with  many  others  supplied  from 
the  dreaded  future  by  her  kindled  imagination,  passed 
in  vivid  detail  before  her.  Nothing  seemed  too  hor- 
rible to  follow  with  logical  certainty  upon  this  open- 
ing scene  of  horror.  Next  to  her  own  Richard, 
young  Scott  had  been  the  pride  of  the  settlement. 
And  now  he  lay  dead;  and  that  fatal  "Still-house" 
had  been  consecrated  to  its  evil  work  at  the  outset  by 
the  best  blood  of  the  neighborhood. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  live  in  a  frontier  settlement  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  the  howl  of  the  wolf  upon  the 
hills,  or  the  shrill  scream  of  the  panther  in  the  forest, 
and  sally  out,  rifle  in  hand,  with  your  dog  at  your 
heels,  to  hunt  out  the  wild  intruders  upon  your 
grounds,  or  to  guard  your  precious  sheepfold  from 
the  foe?  Have  you  ever  started  with  affright,  and  ^ 
.  I  felt  your  blood  chilling  in  your  veins,  as  the  warning 
f  of  the  rattle-snake  by  your  path,  reminded  you  that 
your  legs  were  unbooted,  and  the  enemy  near  by  in 
ambush?  Did  you  ever  hear  the  fearful  cry  of  " Child 
lost!"  in  the  wood;  or  any  of  those  things  which 
startle  the  heart,  and  call  out  the  sympathies  of  neigh- 
bor for  neighbor,  friend  for  friend,  in  a  new  country 
— a  forest  home? 

If  you  have,  you  will  know,  better  than  any  one 


THE   OLD    STILL-nOnSE.  2d 

can  describe  to  you,  the  deep  interest  in  each  other's 
welfare  which  is  felt  in  a  neighborhood  of  new  set- 
tlers. Mutual  danger  makes  mutual  ties  of  interest. 
Neighbors  widely  scattered,  exposed  to  common  and 
various  perils,  cannot  aiford  to  be  indifferent  to  each 
other's  fate;  and  thus  become  by  force  of  circum- 
stances, the  best  and  most  steadfast  friends. 

It  has  been  said  that  "we  never  thoroughly  hate 
one  whom  we  thoroughly  know;  —  and  thus  it  is  that 
in  new  neighborhoods  and  countries,  assistance  is 
rendered  with  an  unselfish,  impulsive  cheerfulness, 
which  you  seldom  find  in  the  changed  circumstances 
of  after-years. 
8* 


CHAPTER    III. 

¥E  left  Truman  in  the  hands  of  the  crowd, 
which  for  a  while  seemed  determined  to  satisfy 
its  anger  by  dealing  with  him  in  the  most  summary 
manner.  Many  cried,  "  Hang  him  ! "  others,  more 
humane,  insisted  upon  tying  him,  and  whipping  him 
"within  an  inch  of  his  life."  But  Richard,  who  felt 
that  evil  enough  had  been  done  already,  and  that 
Truman's  assertion  that  he  had  let  the  log  slip  pur- 
posely, had  been  only  a  drunkard's  boast, — per- 
suaded them  to  release  him. 

This  allayed  the  madman's  fury,  and  as  he  stag- 
gered homeward,  he  blubbered  and  wept  like  a  child 
over  the  horrible  accidents  of  the  day.  His  wife  was 
never  the  sweetest-tempered,  and  the  tale,  that  Tru- 
man had  purposely  let  the  log  fall,  had  reached  her 
ears  before  he  made  his  appearance,  and  created  in 
her  turbulent  bosom  a  terrible  tempest.  Naturally 
nervous  and  excitable,  full  of  energy  and  fire,  taught 
by  precept  and  example  to  scold  and  storm  when 
tilings  went  awry,  she  was  in  no  mood  now  to  lead 
her  besotted  husband  into  a  calmer  and  better  state  of 
mind.  Her  married  life  and  its  manifold  trials  — 
/such  as  they  must  ever  be  to  woman  in  the  honie  of  a 
drunkard — had  done  nothing  to  soften  or  sweeten 
her  temper ;  and  the  pert,  exacting  girl  had  become 
the  uncompromising  termagant,  at  forty. 

(30) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  31 

Poor  Truman  had  been  in  a  state  of  repentance, 
for  the  last  mile,  on  the  road  home.  Mad  he  was, 
when  the  log  slipped  —  mad  with  whiskey  —  ready  to 
rejoice  over  the  fearful  work ;  but  the  sight  of  that 
poor  wife,  and  her  wild,  frantic  woe,  had  pierced  his 
soul,  and  wakened  its  remorse. 

The  long  road  home,  the  coming  twilight,  and  re- 
turning reason,  left  him  subject  to  the  good  angels 
for  a  little  time,  and  he  wept  and  prayed,  as  he  strode 
along  through  the  darkening  forest. 

But  as  he  reached  the  stile,  and  half  climbed,  half 
rolled  himself  over,  Nancy  caught  sight  of  him,  and  ^ 
began  Jier  attack  in  such  a  way  as  threw  him  on  the  '    - 
defensive  at  once,  and_^scattered  his  good  _resolves  as 
the   tree   throws  off  its  leaves   at   the   touch  of  an 
October  frost. 

"  Now,"  began  she,  "  now  you  Ve  gone  and  done 
it,  have  ye  ?  " 

"Gone  and  done  what,  you  old  wild-cat?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  you  'd  ask  what !  Tom 
Wilger's  been  along  an  hour  ago,  and  told  me  all 
about  it.  It's  no  use  trying  to  make  me  believe  you 
did  n't  do  it.  You  're  a  wicked  old  wretch,  and  you  '11 
get  yourself  on  the  gallows,  or  in  the  pen'tentiary, 
and  bring  disgrace  and  misery  on  us  all,  'fore  you  're 
done.  It  'ud  been  better  if  your  own  old  head  had 
a-been  under,  instead  of  Scott's  —  that  it  would  ! " 

Away  went  tears  and  repentance ;  away  went  good   ^  - 
resolves,  and  up  rolled  the  whirlwind  of  wrath. 

"  Now,  look  you  here,  Nancy,  I  'ra  not  agoing  to 
take  sich  as  that  from  you,  nor  no  other  woman ;  and 


32  ELSIE   MAG  O  ON;     OR, 

if  jou  don't  shut  up  and  get  me  some  supper,  I'll 
turn  you  and  every  tarnal  young  one  out  of  the 
house,  and  help  myself.  This  house  is  mine,  and,  by 
the  Lord  Harry,  I'll  be  master  of  it," — and  away 
went  the  club  which  he  carried  as  a  cane,  into  the 
group  of  children,  who  stood,  like  a  flock  of  fright- 
ened quails,  in  the  corner.  Truman  was  thoroughly 
aroused,  and  Nancy,  who  was  r^lly  a  loving  mother,  ^'i 
and  feared  the  eifects  of  his  malice  upon  the  children, 
calmed  down  a  little. 

"  Well,  just  sit  down  now,  and  quit  your  behaving, 
and  I  '11  get  you  the  best  I  can,  —  God  knows,  it 's 
poor  enough." 

And  while  he  poured  out  oaths  and  imprecations, 
she  hurriedly  set  his  food  before  him,  knowing  that 
-  he  would  soon  throw  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  go 
to  sleep  for  the  night ;  and  then  slipped  out  to  milk 
her  cow,  and  give  vent  to  her  burdened  heart  in  sobs 
and  tears. 

Oh !  earth,  earth,  how  beautiful  thou  art ;  and  yet 
how  full  of  sorrow,  of  bitter  anguish,  and  despair, 
are  the  hearts  of  thy  children !  Truly  has  it  been 
written,  "  that  the  sins  of  the  parents  shall  be  visited 
upon  the  children  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tions." Truman  and  his  wife  were  the  legitimate'\ 
[oflspring,  in  mind  and  body,  of  those  who  had  given  j 
them  birth;  —  and  who  may  not  foretell  the  future 
""  of  the  poor  stricken  ones  who  gathered  around  the 
^  sobbing,  scolding  mother — glad  to  take  shelter  even 
in  her  bitterness,  from  a  drunken  father's  violence 
and  wrath  ?     If  the  children  of  such  parents  come  up 


\ 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  33 

in  sin  and  depravity,  shall  the  boasting  moralist,  who 
has  entered  upon  his  manhood  without  the  taint  of 
an  inherited  passion  in  his  veins,  —  who  has  been  fos- 
tered by  a  gentle  mother's  Christ-like  love,  and  a 
father's  calm  discipline  and  resolute  morality, — who 
has  been  trained  to  truth  and  right,  and  taught  daily 
lessons  of  temperance  at  the  home  hearth,  not  only 
by  spoken  words,  but  by  the  habitual  practice  of 
self-control  and  self-denial, — fold  his  hands,  and  say 
to  the  wretched  wanderer  from  the  path  of  right, 
"Stand  by — I  am  holier  than  thou!"  Rather  let"! 
him  return  thanks  for  the  many  blessings  he  has  re-  J 
ceived,  crying,  "Father,  forgive  them;  they  know  — 
not  what  they  do;"  solemnly  asking  his  own  heart, 
if,  with  their  training  and  temptations,  he  should  have 
done  as  well  as  they. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning.  All  traces  of  the  late 
storm  had  passed  away;  the  sun  rose  in  gorgeous 
splendor  and  brightness,  and  shone  down  upon  the 
beautiful  holly,  lighting  it  up  as  if  for  a  holiday 
festival,  rather  than  for  a  funeral. 

The  Wahoo,  as  we  still  prefer  to  call  the  river, 
was  a  coquettish  little  stream  that  went  meandering 
through  the  broad  rich  valley  at  will,  tying  itself 
almost  into  bows  and  knots,  and  then  gliding  away, 
like  a  line  of  silver,  through  a  quiet  meadow,  or  be- 
side the  sloping  hills.  It  was  now  raised  above  its 
common  level  by  the  rain  and  snow,  and,  just  released 
from  its  bondage  of  ice,  went  singing  and  dancing 
along,  making  a  cheerful  accompaniment  to  the  twit- 


34  ELSIE    MA  GO  OX;     OB, 

tering  birds,  and  sending  up  fresh  incense  to  heaven, 
with  that  of  the  opening  buds  and  bursting  leaves. 

Oh !  it  was  a  beautiful  day,  when  young  Scott,  in 
the  prime  of  early  manhood,  was  to  be  returned, — 
"  Dust  to  dust,  and  ashes  to  ashes."  Far  and  wide 
had  spread  the  news  of  the  terrible  catastrophe,  and 
there  was  a  gathering  of  the  people  for  miles  around. 
In  the  city,  your  next-door  neighbor  may  die  and  be 
buried.  You  see  the  signal  of  crape  at  the  door-knob ; 
you  turn  coldly  to  the  paragraph  in  the  morning 
paper  to  learn  of  what  disease,  and  at  what  age,  he 
or  she  has  died;  and  then  go  to  your  business,  to 
remember  them  no  more.  But  in  a  new  country,  a 
death  calls  the  neighbor  from  his  plough,  the  housewife 
from  her  cares ;  and  the  tear  of  sympathy  falls  free 
and  full,  while  the  heart  grows  softer  and  kinder  for 
its  sorrowing. 

This  too  was  the  Sabbath ;  and  as  the  sun  rose  to 
the  meridian,  and  the  first  hour  of  his  declining  was 
marked  upon  the  cabin-floor,  the  people  gathered  from 
East  and  West,  from  North  and  South,  until  the  cabin 
of  Scott,'  where  the  body  lay,  could  not  hold  a  tenth 
of  those  who  came.  Elder  Peters,  the  venerable 
pastor,  who  had  been  summoned  from  the  next  village, 
proposed  that  they  should  repair  with  the  coffin  to 
the  maple  grove  near  the  grave-yard.  When  they 
arrived  there,  seats  were  made  of  logs  and  rails  for 
the  men,  chairs  and  stools  from  their  farm  wagons 
accommodated  the  elder  part  of  the  matrons,  and  the 
younger  stood,  or  took  turns  with  the  older  men. 
Many  a  meeting  had  been  held  in  this  lovely  spot, 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  35 

beside  the  little  log  meeting-house  and  the  rural 
grave-yard ;  but  never  one  so  solemn,  so  full  of  deep 
warning  as  this. 

When  all  was  arranged,  the  old,  gray-haired 
preacher  arose  and  offered  a  fervent  prayer  in  behalf 
of  the  people.     Then  came  the  hymn  — 

"  Hark  !  from  the  tombs  a  doleful  sound  — 
Mine  ears  attend  the  cry  ; 
Ye  living  men,  come  view  the  ground, 
Where  you  must  shortly  lie." 

And  the  deep  bass  of  the  voices  of  a  hundred  men,  and 
many  more  of  the  softer  treble  of  women,  filled  tho 
forest  with  the  full  notes  of  stirring  pathos.  Wild, 
deep,  and  fervid  was  the  solemn  dirge  that  echoed 
through  the  valley  from  the  lips  and  hearts  of  the 
assembled  crowd,  a  heartfelt  requiem  for  their  lamented 
dead. 

When  the  opening  exercises  were  closed,  the  old 
man  arose  and  took  his  text  from  Christ's  Sermon  on 
the  Mount,  all  of  which  he  first  read  with  impassioned 
emphasis.  "  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they 
shall  be  comforted,"  he  repeated ;  and  for  'half  an 
hour  he  sought  to  bring  hope  and  consolation  to  the 
stricken  kindred,  most  of  all  to  the  old  father  and 
mother,  who  had  come,  laden  with  years  and  sorrow 
to  lay  in  the  grave  their  last-born,  who,  like  Benj 
min,  had  been  their  darling.  There  were  brothers 
and  sisters  too,  who  sat  in  the  space  for  mourners 
around  the  coffin ;  and  as  the  aged  pastor's  words 
fell  soft  and  low,  they  wept  long  and  freely.  At  last 
he  addressed  himself  more  directly  to  the  audience : 


ia-i-  '•' 


36  ELSIE  MAG  DON;    OR, 

"  My  friends/'  said  he,  "  I  am  an  old  man,  and, 
you  know,  the  Psalmist  says,  'our  days  are  three- 
score years  and  ten ;  and  if,  by  reason  of  strength, 
they  be  fourscore,  yet  is  their  strength  labor  and  sor- 
row.' I  have  passed  the  common  age  of  man,  and 
am  travelling  on  to  the  fourscore;  yet  I  cannot  say 
as  yet,  that  my  labor  is  sorrow ;  for  God  has  blessed 
my  weakness,  and  naade  me  joyful  in  his  own  strength. 
But  I  may  never  be  spared  to  come  to  you  again,  or 
you  be  allowed  to  meet  here  in  such  numbers ;  and  I 
have  much  to  say  to  you  this  day.  Go  bury  your 
dead  and  return  here  for  an  hour." 

Plain  and  simple  was  the  old  man's  speech,  and 
the  people,  who  knew  and  loved  him,  obeyed  without 
question  or  hesitation. 

Meanwhile  the  widow,  in  her  weakness  and  partial 
unconsciousness,  had  been  left  in  the  care  of  kind, 
old  Granny  Hill,  who  had  "  strength  enough  left  in 
her  old  bones,"  she  said,  "  for  many  a  good  turn  yet." 
While  the  poor  young  thing  slept,  she  sat  by  the  • 
window,  and  with  her  spectacles  before  her  eyes,  and 
her  Bible  spread  on  the  little  stand,  commenced  read- 
ing. Her  hands  lay  listlessly  over  the  arms  of  the 
old  high-backed  chair,  while  her  body  sought  repose 
from  the  cushion  behind.  The  words  grew  more  and 
more  dim,  and  at  last  she  nodded  in  very  weariness. 
Then  she  roused  herself,  drew  out  her  snuff-box,  took 
a  pinch,  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  read  again.  Again  she 
nodded  and  dozed,  and,  dropping  her  head  against  the 
chair,  fell  fast  asleep. 

Soon  after  her  nurse  fell  asleep,  Mary  opened  her 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  37 

eyes.  Where  was  she?  She  could  not  tell.  Ail 
things  about  her  were  new  and  strange.  She  closed 
her  eyes  again,  and  visions  of  terror  floated  about  her; 
gradually  they  assumed  form  and  shape,  and, — like  a 
sudden  waking  from  a  sound  sleep, — the  dream,  the 
confusion  passed  away,  and  the  dread  reality  stood 
before  her.  She  raised  herself  in  the  bed,  and  dis- 
covered the  sleeping  woman.  She  looked  about — 
her  all  was  gone.  She  cast  her  eye  out  of  the  window 
down  across  the  meadow  to  the  sugar-grove,  and  there 
was  the  assembled  multitude. 

She  sprang  lightly  from  the  bed,  and  slipped  down 
the  path  by  the  fence,  just  as  they  were  lowering  the 
remains  of  her  husband  into  the  dark  vault  below. 
As  the  minister  lifted  his  hat  from  his  aged  brow,  to 
return  thanks  to  the  bearers,  who  had  borne  the  bier 
hither  upon  their  shoulders,  and  to  ask  the  blessing 
of  God  upon  them  all,  a  wild  cry  was  heard,  and  the 
wife  broke  through  the  solid  circle  around  the  grave. 
Ere  they  could  stay  her  course,  she  let  herself  into 
the  grave,  and  lay  moaning  upon  the  coffin.  Shriek 
after  shriek  pierced  the  air :  — 

"  Oh !  he  is  not  dead,  he  is  not  dead !  You  shall 
not  bury  him  !  He  was  well  yesterday  morning ;  so 
strong  and  good  !  He  went  to  build  a  *  Still-house' — 
who  killed  him?  Oh!  God,  have  mercy — help — 
help  —  he  is  not  dead,  he  is  Twt  dead ! " 

With  maniac  fury,  she  tried  to  tear  the  lid  from 
the  coffin  with  her  feeble  hands.     Intense  excitement 
stirred  the  people. 
4 


38  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

"Sing,"  said  the  aged  minister, —  "sing  in  full,  soft 
chorus : " 

"Oh!  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 

Our  strength  in  years  to  come, 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 

And  our  eternal  home  ! 
A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight, 

Are  as  an  evening  gone  — 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night, 

Before  the  rising  sun." 

The  men  were  trembling,  and  the  women  weeping 
in  the  tenderest  sympathy;  but  the  pastor's  words 
quieted  them,  and  their  voices  rose,  in  a  low,  plain- 
tive, soothing  air,  gradually  swelling  into  a  louder 
note  of  triumph  and  faith.  The  wife  became  more 
and  more  calm ;  at  last  her  sad  cries  ceased,  and  she 
lay  sobbing  and  helpless,  and  made  no  resistance,  as 
strong  men  lifted  her  in  their  arms  from  the  grave, 
and  gave  her  into  the  hands  of  her  friends. 

"Come  away,"  said  Elder  Peters,  "and  lead  her 
from  the  grave ;"  and  still  singing,  they  walked  back 
to  the  grove ;  while  the  friends  placing  the  widow  in 
one  of  their  wagons,  drove  with  her  to  her  father's 
house. 

The  preacher  called  his  flock  around  him,  and,  in 

words  not  eloquent,  but  weighty  and  true,  preached 

f  the  first  Temperance   sermon   that  ever  was    heard 

I  among  the  swaying  boughs  of  that  old  forest — per- 

I  haps  the  first   ever   preached  in  Ohio.     He  spoke 

unflinchingly,  fearless  of  censure.     He  held  up  before 

them  a  picture  of  themselves.     He  pointed  to  tlie 

new-made  grave,  recalled  the  anguish  of  the  crushed 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  39 

wife,  and  spoke  of  the  orphaned  child.  "All  this," 
said  he,  "is  but  the  beginning — an  earnest  of  what 
is  to  follow — from  that  accursed  building  just  now 
reared  in  your  midst." 

"  My  friends,"  cried  he,  with  vehemence,  "  I  am  an 
old  man,  yet  have  my  lips  never  knowingly  tasted 
ardent  spirits.  The  voice  of  my  angel-mother  taught 
me,  with  my  morning  prayer  and  my  evening  thanks- 
giving, to  shun  this  snare,  set  for  the  feet  of  the 
unwary.  Will  any  man  say  I  am  the  worse?  How 
can  a  Christian  pray,  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation 
— deliver  us  from  evil,' — and  yet  put  the  deadly  cup 
to  his  lips,  and  help  to  make,  buy,  or  seU  that  which  '  — 
will  bring  upon  us  scenes  like  this  we  have  just  passed 
through  ?  What  caused  the  accident  of  yesterday  ? 
Rum!  What  made  that  wife  a  maniac?  Rum! 
What  has  cast  such  a  gloom  over  the  neighborhood, 
causing  you  to  assemble  here,  with  grieved  hearts,  to 
bury  away  out  of  your  sight,  in  the  very  spring-time 
of  his  manhood,  a  good  man,  a  brother  and  a  friend  ? 
Rum !  And  yet,  my  people,  you  are  joining  hands 
to  build  a  temple,  here  in  this  wood,  consecrated  to 
the  use  of  that  demon  which  destroys  so  much  of 
your  peace.  Pause,  before  you  go  further!  If  such^ 
things  are  done  in  the  green  tree,  what  sliall  we  J' — 
expect  in  the  dry  ?  " 

The  old  man  talked  thus  for  nearly  an  hour,  in 
the  most  earnest  manner,  regardless  of  the  frowns  of 
the  men,  or  even  of  the  abrupt  departure  of  Deacon 
Hill,  who  left  the  grave,  and  stood  moodily  apart. 
Richard  Magoon  was  too  manly  to  show  any  dis- 


40  ELSIE    MA  GO  OK 

pleasure,  but  his  face,  despite  his  efforts,  betrayed  the 
feelings  that  were  struggling  within. 

The  old  man  closed,  by  offering  a  pledge  somewhat 
like  that  of  the  "  American  Temperance  Society ; " 
but  none  would  sign  it — no,  not  one;  and  as  they 
went  away  to  their  homes,  the  majority  of  the  men 
called  the  old  man  crazed.  But  the  women  thought 
there  was  at  least  "  method  in  his  madness,"  and  that 
his  words  "were  words  of  truth  and  soberness." 
Elsie  Magoon  did  not  sign  the  pledge;  but  in  her 
soul  were  treasured  up  resolves  never  afterward  broken 
or  forgotten. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

FIVE  years ! — what  a  moment  they  become,  as  we 
look  back  upon  them  !  No  matter  how  full  of 
fear  and  sorrow, — no  matter  how  full  of  pain  and 
anguish  in  the  passing, — they  dwindle  to  a  mere 
span  when  we  look  back  upon  them  through  the 
long  lanes  of  life. 

Nor  does  it  matter  if  the  moments  were  filled  to 
the  brim  with  gladness; — if  every  pulse  told  of  a 
happiness  akin  to  Paradise; — if  joy  gave  wings  to 
the  hours  then ;  they  now  are  as  the  distant  visions 
of  a  fevered  dream. 

Five  years  have  gone  by  since  they  buried  the 
victim  of  the  "  Still "  in  the  solitary  church-yard  by 
the  sugar-grove, — since  they  bore  the  maniac  wife  to 
her  kindred, — and  since  the  strong-hearted  Elsie 
Magoon  resolved,  in  the  silence  of  her  own  spirit,  to 
wage  life-long  warfare  with  the  demon  of  destruction. 

The  April  sun  had  come  out  bright  and  beautiful 
after  that  solemn  funeral,  as  if  the  children  of  men 
were  pure  and  good.  But  light  and  warmth  had 
never  come  again  to  the  soul  of  the  bereaved  wife. 
From  the  funeral  scene  in  the  sugar-grove,  until  she 
ceased  to  wander  by  the  brookside,  and  gather  spring 
violets  for  her  hair,  she  had  remained  a  maniac;  al- 
ways awaiting  his  coming,  and  forgetful  of  all  things 

4*  (41) 


42  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

save  that  trustinoj  love  which  had  been  the  most  real 
and  blissful  experience  of  her  young  life. 

They  laid  her  to  rest  one  bright  May-morning  by 
his  side,  and  shed  tears  of  quick  sympathy  above  her, 
while  in  low  and  gentle  whispers  they  said,  It  is 
better  so, — she  goes  to  meet  him  who  was  so  murder- 
ously torn  from  her,  and  who  waits  her  coming  in 
the  beauty  of  his  youthful  vigor,  and  the  purity  of 
his  early  love. 

Truman  still  lived  by  the  roadside,  his  cabin  more 
fearfully  desolate,  his  wife  more  turbulent  and  un- 
happy, his  children  more  wild  and  ungovernable,  — 
and  he,  a  loathsome  sot.  He  worked  still,  at  times, 
but  every  night  found  him  staggering  under  the  weight 
of  his  daily  draught.  Whiskey  then  had  one  virtue 
that  it  can  not  now  boast.  It  was  free  from  drugs 
and  deadly  poisons.  A  virtue! — no,  we  will  recall 
that  word.  It  had  no  virtues  :  it  had  only  a  property 
that  lengthened  into  years  the  tortures  which  now  are 
often  ended  in  a  few  days. 

Smith  and  Sheldon  were  both  given  over  to  the 
fell  demon  which  groaned  and  spouted  in  the  hollow 
all  the  year  round ;  for  the  steam-engine  was  but  a 
clumsy  aflPair,  and  its  labored,  unearthly  sounds  might 
easily,  by  the  agonized  fancy  of  the  suffering,  have 
been  mistaken  for  the  shrieks  of  lost  souls. 

Many  new-comers — or,  as  they  were  called,  "Bush- 
whackers"—  had  moved  into  the  neighborhood,  set- 
tled down  in  their  cabins  upon  government  land,  and 
managed  to  live  by  working  "  by  the  day  "  for  the 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  43 

farmers  about,  ana  every  one  of  them  was  a  daily  fre- 
quenter of  the  old  "  Still-house." 

The  land  was  rapidly  passing  into  the  hands  of 
owners,  being  cleared  and  put  under  cultivation. 
The  county  seat,  "  Down  at  the  Ford,"  as  it  used  to 
be  called,  which,  five  years  ago,  was  but  a  very  small 
collection  of  very  small  houses,  had  swelled  into  quite 
a  village,  and  an  active  trade  was  kept  up  between 
its  merchants  and  the  farmers 

Money  was  not  a  very  abundant  article  in  those 
days.  The  merchant  bought  his  goods  on  credit; 
sold  them  for  the  products  of  the  farm,  the  field,  and 
the  wood  which  he  floated  down  the  rivers  to  Now 
Orleans,  in  winter;  where  they  were  exchanged  for 
cash,  or  groceries — such  as  sugar,  tea,  coffee,  fish,  and 
molasses.  These  were  at  first  brought  up  the  Ohio 
on  the  slow-moving  keel-boat,  but,  after  the  year 
1815,  by  steamers  which  plied  at  intervals  upon  the 
waters  of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi,  making  the  trip, 
sometimes,  in  the  short  space  of  forty  days.  But 
every  year  added  to  their  speed,  and  also  to  the  im- 
petus given  to  improvement  in  the  new  country.  The 
town  of  Smith ville — named  from  its  proprietor  — 
had  now  become,  in  the  phrase  of  the  times,  a  "won- 
derful growing  place." 

Richard  Magoon's  "  Still-house "  was  a  great  help 
to  the  people; — of  course  it  was.  Did  he  not  hire 
all  the  squatters  to  work  on  his  great  farm  ?  Did  he 
not  buy  all  the  corn  and  rye  in  the  country  round  ? 
Were  not  all  the  apples  ground  into  cider  at  his  mill, 


44  ELSIE    MA  GOO X;    OR, 

all  the  peaches  mashed  into  pummice,  and  the  surplus 
of  cider  and  peaches  worked  into  brandy  there  ? 

His  mill,  too,  supplied  the  flour  and  corn-meal; 
and  what  with  his  mill,  his  distillery,  his  coopering, 
his  fiirm,  and  his  river-trading,  Richard  ^lagoon  held 
an  important  position  in  the  community*,  and  was 
looked  upon  as  one  of  the  best,  most  discreet,  and 
large-hearted  men  in  the  land. 

Who  thought  a  " Still-house"  a  bad  thing?  Xo- 
body  but  Elder  Peters, — and  he  was  "kind  of  crazy." 
Of  course  he  was !  It  was  considered  rare  fun  to 
cheat  the  old  man,  and  make  him  drink  his  draught 
of  pure  water  from  the  tin  cup  that  was  used  to 
measure  whiskey,  because  he  refused  to  drink  from  a 
glass  tumbler  lest  it  might  have  held  the  obnoxious 
beverage. 

Deacon  Hill,  and  Major  Brant,  and  Squire  Fal- 
coner, and  Capt.  Wilson,  were  getting  rich.  They 
built  fine  farm-houses ;  for  a  man  could  build  a  house 
easily  then,  by  exchange  of  trade.  They  had  built  a 
good  church,  too,  and  a  comfortable  school-house; 
and  none  had  been  more  earnest,  active,  and  self- 
sacrificing  in  all  these  good  works,  than  Richard 
Magoon.  To  be  sure,  whiskey  had  helped  him  to 
build  church  and  school-house ;  had  drained  his  land, 
tilled  his  fields,  turned  his  mill,  supported  his  family ; 
but  he  prospered,  or  seemed  to,  and  no  one  thought 
of  charging  him  with  blame  for  the  way  and  means 
of  his  prosperity. 

If  Truman  drank  up  all  his  earnings,  if  his  wife 
had  to  spin  for  a  little  corn-meal,  and  his  children 


THE    OLD    Sr ILL-HOUSE.  45 

ran  about  the  neighborhood  begging  to  share  with^ 
( the  pigs  the  skim-milk  and  butter-milk  of  the  dairy, 
if  they  had  no  shoes  to  wear  to  school  in  winter, 
and  no  fit  clothes  in  summer,  whose  fault  was  it? 
Why,  not  Mr.  Magoon's,  surely  j  for  he  was  "  ve)-y 
kind  to  poor  Mrs.  Truman;" — he  sent  his  team  to 
haul  her  wood  in  winter ;  let  the  boys  have  all  the 
apples  they  could  carry  out  of  the  orchard,  pick 
roasting-ears  from  the  corn-field,  or  dig  potatoes  from 
the  patch,  in  summer;  he  gave  her  now  and  then  a 
fleece  of  wool,  and  allowed  her  to  cultivate  a  half- 
acre  of  flax  across  the  brook,  on  his  hill-land.  Yes, 
he  was  "  very  good  to  the  poor ; "  and  Richard  Ma-  ' 
goon  meant  to^be  a  good  man. 

The  neighborhood  prospered:  so  everybody  thought. 
People  were  getting  rich.  Farms  were  enlarging  and 
multiplying ;  houses  were  being  built,  while  the  old 
steam-engine,  in  its  shady  nook  under  the  hill, 
shrieked  on,  and  the  poor  and  the  needy,  the  wives 
and  little  ones  of  the  many,  very  many  drinkers, 
suffered  and  groaned  in  their  cabins.  Indeed,  the 
wives  were  fully  convinced  in  those  days,  as  so  many 
still  are, — that  it  is  a  man's  privilege  to  get  drunk, 
and  spend  his  earnings  in  self-indulgence ;  while  it  is 
his  wife's  highest  duty  to  hide  his  shortcomings  from 
the  world,  with  a  mantle  woven  of  the  beautiful 
threads  of  woman's  love  and  patience. 

But  in  the  houses  of  the  rich,  too,  as,  by  comparison, 
they  were  called,  —  in  the  houses  where  prosperity 
had  set  her  seal, — the  shadows  of  the  old  "Still- 
house"  sometimes  fell,  with  dark  and  fearful  portents. 


46  ELSIE   MAG  DON;    OR, 

Mrs.  Deacon  Hill  had  to  tell  her  "man"  more  than 
once,  that  "he'd  got  to  jest  let  his  bitters  alone,  'cept 
of  mornings  when  there  was  a  fog ;  for  jest  so  sure 
as  he  took  a  dram  before  breakfast,  he  had  to  have 
another  arterward,  and  another  before  dinner,  and  a 
good  half  dozen  before  bed-time ;  and  then  he  was 
always  a-cutting  up,  and  telling  yarns  to  the  boys, — 
which  was  very  unbecoming  of  a  deacon  of  the  church. 
'Fore  he  knowed  it,  he'd  be  getting  as  drunk  as  Tru- 
man, or  Sheldon,  or  the  rest  on  'em  ;  and  she  was  n't 
agoing  for  to  have  it." 

The  Deacon  was  a  mild  man,  and  knew  that  dis- 
cretion was  the  better  part  of  valor ;  so  he  listened  to 
the  voice  of  Sarah,  his  wife,  and  did  as  she  bade,  in- 
dulging only  of  "foggy  mornings,"  —  which  invari- 
ably made  foggy  days  for  the  Deacon,  and  ended  with 
storms  at  nightfall,  that  kept  the  atmosphere  clear 
for  a  week  or  two  afterwards. 

Major  Brant,  too,  who  bore  himself  so  gallantly 
on  muster-days, — who  made  the  speeches  on  Fourths 
of  July,  and  harangues  at  the  political  gatherings, — 
grew  rosy  and  flushed,  even  purple  on  the  end  of 
his  nose,  as  his  poor  wife  grew  paler  and  sparer. 
-  Squire  Falconer,  who  had  gained  his  title  by  being 
justice  of  the  peace  for  a  few  years,  had  lost  his 
election,  simply  because  he  was  generally  too  good- 
natured  in  the  morning,  and  too  cross  in  the  after- 
noon, to  do  justice  to  the  litigants.  So  Richard 
Magoon,  the  people's  favorite,  now  held  the  dignity 
of  Squire  in  Smithville. 

Thus,  the   men  were  seemingly  prosperous;    but 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOVSE.  47 

many  an  aching  brain  pressed  the  uneasy  pillow,  and 
many  a  bright  eye  grew  dim  with  tears  over  the  fatal 
effect  of  the  old  "  Still-house." 

Where,  all  this  time,  was  Elsie  Magoon  ?  Has  she 
forgotten  her  vows,  and  gone  over  to  the  help  of  the 
wicked  ? 

Let  us  look  in  upon  her  for  a  little.  She  is  paler 
than  five  years  ago.  Deeper  lines  are  on  her  brow. 
The  table  is  set ;  supper  is  waiting ;  and  she,  weary 
with  her  day's  work,  has  thrown  herself  upon  the 
door-stone  of  their  fine  new  home,  to  wait  the  com- 
ing of  her  husband. 

"  Little  Elsie,"  now  nearly  six  years,  is  standing 
behind  her  mother,  weaving  a  wreath  of  roses  in  her 
hair  j  while  the  two  boys,  one  older  and  one  younger 
than  Elsie,  are  at  play  beside  them,  occasionally 
making  a  boyish  attack  upon  the  little  Alice,  and  the 
babe  who  sits  upon  the  mother's  knee.  It  is  a  happy 
picture !  Yes,  all  look  happy,  but  Frank,  the  eldest, 
now  eleven  years,  and  his  mother.  Shades  of  sad- 
ness may  be  seen  on  the  faces  of  these  two,  that  be- 
token hearts  ill  at  ease.  It  is  Saturday  night — the 
latter  part  of  May. 

"Won't  your  father  be  in  soon,  Frank?"  said 
Elsie,  with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness. 

"  I  don't  know,  mother.  It 's  been  an  awful  week, 
this.  There  have  been  a  half  dozen  fights,  and  half 
the  hands  have  been  drunk  every  day.  Father  said 
^londay,  he  was  going  to  have  all  the  corn  in  this  week ; 
and  we  've  had  pretty  nigh  thirty  hands  at  work  all 
the  time,  and  they  have  just  been  drinking  and  frol- 


48  ELSIE   MAG  0  OK. 

icking  right  straight  along.  Kit  says  they  've  drunk 
more  than  their  wages,  every  one  of  'era.  AVilson, 
and  Sheldon,  and  Truman,  are  all  down  in  the  field 
now,  drunk  as  they  can  be,  lying  on  the  grass  in 
the  fence-corners.  Jenny  Sheldon  came  over  a  bit 
ago,  to  tell  her  father  to  bring  home  some  meal  and 
meat  for  Sunday ;  and  there  he  lay  on  his  back ;  and 
the  poor  girl  is  standing  by  him,  crying,  and  coaxing 
him  to  go  home,  and  he  just  swears  at  her.  —  Mother, 
I  wish  that  old  '  Still-house '  was  burned  down  !  I 
do  so !  I  don't  believe  father  will  be  here  this  hour ; 
for  they  had  to  send  for  him  to  come  to  the  '  Still- 
house.'  Mike  Dugan  and  Kit  were  having  a  real 
fuss.  Kit  would  not  let  Mike  in  the '  Still-house,'  and 
Mike  was  throwing  stones  at  the  windows  and  doors ; 
and  so  it  goes  all  the  time." 

The  boy's  tears  were  falling.  The  mother  leaned 
her  head  upon  her  hands,  and  buried  her  emotion  iu 
the  folds  of  her  apron.  Little  Elsie  let  fall  her 
roses,  and  sprang  to  her  brother's  side,  begging  him 
not  to  cry,  though  she  could  not  understand  his 
sorrrow. 

"We  must  be  patient,  Frank,"  said  the  mother, 
with  a  choking  voice.  "  I  hope  these  things  will 
not  always  be  so."  And  she  drew  him  to  her,  and 
pressed  a  kiss  wet  with  the  sad  dew  of  tears,  ujjon  his 
sun-burnt  brow.  Then  with  a  quick  effort  at  self- 
control,  she  caressed  the  little  ones  who  clung  about 
her,  and  with  pleasant  loving  words  and  sports  be- 
guiled the  hour  until  their  early  bed-time. 


CHAPTER     V. 

LATER  in  the  evening,  Richard  and  Elsie  sat 
alone,  in  the  same  place.  The  full  moon  shone 
brightly  upon  the  door-stone,  and  the  soft  air  revived 
the  weary  ones,  as  it  came  to  them  laden  with  the 
fi^grance  of  the  roses  that  circled  the  door. 

Richard  looked  sad  and  perplexed,  and  his  wife's 
heart  was  full  to  overflowing. 

They  were  both  silent  a  long  time. 

"Well,  Elsie,"  said  Richard,  at  last,  "another 
hard  week's  work  is  done." 

"Yes;  but  not  a  very  profitable  one,  was  it, 
Richard?" 

"  No.  There 's  the  worst  set  of  men  about  here,  I 
believe,  that  ever  were  called  together  in  any  one 
place  on  the  face  of  the  earth !  They  have  half  of 
them  been  drunk  all  the  week;  and,  for  my  soul,  I 
can't  keep  'em  straight.  I  have  got  to  have  a  real 
overhauling  among  the  hands  at  the  *  Still-house,' 
too.  Kit  is  not  fit  to  stay  there:  he  drinks  just 
enough  to  make  him  devilish,  quarrels  with  every- 
body, and,  they  tell  me-,  uses  his  wife  shamefully.  I 
saw  him  whipping  his  little  Nelly  this  morning,  like 
a  brute.  His  wife  undertook  to  get  the  child  out  of 
his  way,  and  he  gave  her  a  kick  that  sent  her  stag- 
gering against  the  side  of  the  house." 

5  (49) 


60  :ELSIE   ma  goo  N;    0  R, 

"Kicked  his  wife !  — kicked  Abigail,  in  her  con- 
dition ! "  said  Elsie.  "  Oh,  Kichard  !  is  there  no  way 
for  us  to  live  but  by  that  '  Still-house?'  — by  making 
whiskey,  to  blight  the  happiness  of  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood? Frank  has  been  telling  me  to-night  about 
things  at  the  Still.  I  have  seen,  too,  for  myself;  and 
it  grows  terrible,  Kichard  !  Only  think  how  the  wives 
of  all  these  men  must  suffer  !  Every  day  I  hear  of 
things  as  bad  as  those  you  tell  me  you  have  seen  to- 
day; and  it  is  awful  to  me — awful  to  think  that  we 
are  helping  to  make  all  this  wrong  and  crime  among 
the  people." 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  not  responsible  for  their  foolish- 
ness. No  man  is  obliged  to  drink,  if  he  don't  wish 
to.  I  never  asked  one  of  my  hands  to  take  whiskey 
in  payment  for  a  day's  work  in  my  life ;  and  you 
know,  Elsie,  no  man  hates  this  whole  matter  of  dram- 
drinking  worse  than  I  do.  Besides,  I  don't  see  any 
use  of  always  looking  at  the  black  side  of  the  picture. 
There  are  some  drinking-men  hereabouts,  but  where 
would  you  go  to  find  the  place  where  there  is  a  better 
society  of  people,  or  where  greater  progress  has  been 
made,  than  here?" 

"I  know  the  neighborhood  grows — that  wealth 
increases  with  many :  how  can  it  be  otherwise,  in 
such  a  beautiful,  fertile  country?  But  would  not 
genuine  prosperity  increase  as  rapidly  without  your 
distillery  ?  Are  not  all  these  outrages  against  decency 
and  sobriety,  just  so  many  blemishes  upon  our  com- 
munity, that  should  not  and  need  not  be?  Arid, 
Richard,  to  be  candid  now:    Is   the   'Still-house' 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  51 

making  you  rich,  among  others,  or  are  you  sacrificing 
yourself  in  this  work?  Aye,  Richard,  sacrificing 
yourself,  and  the  poor,  the  weak,  the  misguided,  and 
their  helpless  families,  to  make  a  market  for  other 
people's  products  ?" 

llichard  dared  not  answer  directly — so  he  turned 
to  another  phase  of  the  subject. 

"  Something  must  be  done  with  corn.  If  /  don't 
use  it  up,  somebody  else  will.  Pork,  they  say,  is 
going  to  bring  a  better  price  this  fall  than  it  ever  has. 
I  intend  to  buy  all  the  hogs  I  can,  and  fatten  them  for 
the  Eastern  market.'* 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  then,  Richard,  give  them 
the  corn  in  its  natural  state ;  and  if  there  is  a  devil 
in  it,  let  it  enter  the  swine,  as  of  old ;  do  not  extract 
it,  to  make  swine  of  your  neighbors.  I  tell  you, 
Richard,"  added  Elsie,  impatiently,  "  there  are  not 
ten  men  about  here  who  are  not  becoming  the  victims 
of  your  'Still-house';  and  if  it  goes  on  five  years 
longer,  we  shall  have  a  terrible  neighborhood.  Just 
think  what  schools  we  have  nowj  what  rowdyism; 
what  wild  young  men ! " 

"  There  it  is  again  !  Every  time  we  sit  down  for  a 
chat,  up  comes  that  same  old  story — as  if  my  'Still- 
house'  were  the  cause  of  all.  I  tell  you,  Elsie,  it's 
no  use  talking ;  I  have  invested  all  I  'm  worth  in  it, 
and  it  must  go  on.  If  people  will  be  fools,  it  is  not 
my  fault;  and  I  won't  bear  to  be  taunted  and  re- 
proached, day  in  and  day  out,  about  what  I  can't  help. 
You  can  hunt  up  old  Father  Peters,  to  talk  your  non- 
sense to,  if  you  must  talk." 


52  ELSIE    M AGO  ON;    OR, 

Elsie  made  no  reply.  A  thought,  a  revelation,  that 
burnt  into  her  very  soul,  came  to  her  with  those  harsh 
words,  and  she  was  deliberating  with  herself  whether 
she  should  speak  at  all,  or  leave  him  to  his  own 
reflections,  when  they  were  startled  by  a  shriek  from 
the  nearest  cabin. 

"  Help,  help  !  murther,  murther !  help  ! "  came  in 
shrill  screams  upon  the  evening  air. 

Richard  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Pat  is  whipping 
Nora  again,"  he  exclaimed.  "Curse  the  drunken 
beast!  I  expected  nothing  else  when  he  filled  his 
gallon-jug  to-night." 

Again  came  the  cry,  "  Help,  help !  it 's  choking  me 
to  death,  he  is ! " 

Richard  waited  for  no  second  summons,  but  bounded 
away  to  the  help  of  the  suffering  woman.  Elsie,  in 
her  excitement,  followed  after. 

Patrick  Sweeney  was  one  of  the  best  stone-cutters 
and  brick-masons,  in  the  country.  Wlieu  sober,  he 
could  out-work  and  out-wit  the  best.  About  once  a 
month  he  indulged  himself  in  a  spree,  as  he  called  it, 
in  which  his  good  wife  Xora  never  failed  to  take  her 
full  share.  Pat  demanded  the  best  wages,  and  as  such 
workmen  as  he  were  scarce,  found  no  trouble  in  get- 
ting them. 

Nora  was  as  shrewd  and  as  witty  as  her  husband, — 
never  at  a  loss  for  a  joke,  and  generally  more  than  a 
match  for  Pat — particularly  if  he  was  much  "in 
liquor,"  as  she  called  it. 

When  Richard  arrived  at  the  scene  of  action,  he 
found  them  in  a  fight,  around  a  stump  before  the 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  53 

door, — throwing  stones,  chips,  bits  of  wood,  fire- 
brands, pots  and  kettles — anything  they  could  seize, 
Nora  all  the  while  screeching  and  hallooing, "  Murther, 
murther !  help,  help ! "  Pat  was  a  large  man,  and 
Nora  the  merest  little  creature  in  the  world,  scarcely 
the  size  of  a  full-grown  child  of  ten,  slender,  and  of 
a  delicate  constitution,  as  one  would  judge  from  her 
fair  complexion  and  smooth,  soft  hair. 

Just  as  Richard  came  up,  Pat  had  seized  her  by  the 
throat. 

"  Och !  but  I  Ve  got  you  now,  my  lady ;  and  it 's 
a  stop  I  '11  put  to  your  scraaching,  like  a  blind  owl  in 
the  midnight." 

This  gentle  speech  was  cut  short  by  Richard,  who, 
seizing  him  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  laid  him  pros- 
trate, and  was  about  to  pin  him  down  with  a  strong 
hand,  and  exact  a  promise  of  peace,  when  he  felt  him- 
self suddenly  assailed  by  a  set  of  wiry  fingers  in  his 
hair,  which  dragged  him,  despite  his  efforts,  away 
from  the  fallen  enemy,  and  half  around  the  stump, 
while  the  same  shrill  voice  that  rang  in  his  ears, 
"  Murther,  murther ! "  now  saluted  him  with  no 
loving  epithets. 

"  I  '11  tache  you,  Richard  Magoon,  to  be  meddlin' 
with  ray  husband  !  What  bisiness  have  ye,  I'd  like 
to  know,  intarfarin'  a-tween  man  and  wife.  Has  n't 
yer  good  Book  tould  ye,  ye  ould  sinner,  what  God 
has  fixed  thegither,  never  let  man  be  a  separatin' ;  and 
now,  ye  dirty-faced  spalpeen,  how  dare  ye  be  violatin' 
it?  Never  a  hair  I'll  laave  in  the  head  of  ye,  if  ye 
5» 


54  ELSIE  MA  GO  OX;    OF, 

don't  be  after  trating  us  both,  like  a  gintleman,  to  a 
nice  dram  of  yer  best." 

Pat  was  by  this  time  upon  his  feet,  and  came  to  the 
relief  of  his  assailant. 

" Och,  woman  !  what  are  ye  doing  now?  Sure  it's 
the  Squire  yer  making  so  free  wid.  Lit  go  his  hair, 
Nora,  darlint.  You'll  be  forgivin'  her,  Mister  Ma- 
goon,  for  that  same.  Faix,  a  wife  would  be  no  wife 
at  all  that  would  not  be  taking  the  part  of  her  hus- 
band !  It  was  just  a  bit  of  a  play  we  were  havin', 
for  love's  sake,  in  the  moonlight,  sir.  Not  the  laste 
bit  of  anger  in  the  world,  sir — not  the  laste.  But, 
walk  in,  Mr.  Magoon, —  walk  in,  my  leddy.  I'll 
thrate  ye  to  a  nicer  toddy  than  iver  you  drank  afore, 
since  the  day  that  your  mither  gin  ye  a  wee  drop,  for 
yer  stomach's  sake,  in  the  morning." 

Richard  turned  with  disgust  from  his  drunken 
familiarity.  Had  his  own  spirit  been  less  disturbed, 
he  might  have  laughed  heartily  at  the  Irish  wit,  and 
the  ready  tact  that  could,  on  the  instant,  turn  a 
drunken  fight  into  a  "love-play  in  the  moonlight." 
But  now  he  paused  only  to  threaten  Pat  with  his 
magisterial  power  if  any  further  disturbance  occui'red, 
and  turned,  with  Elsie,  to  retrace  his  steps. 

The  sound  of  a  galloping  horse  was  heard  in  the 
distance,  and,  in  a  moment  more,  a  man  rode  up,  who 
proved  to  be  the  constable  of  the  township.  He  came 
with  the  news  that  Mike  Dugan,  on  his  way  home 
from  the  "  Still,"  had  met  young  Harry  Falconer,  in 
company  with  his  sister;  that  Mike  had  insulted 
Ellen,  and  Henry  had  repelled  the  insult  by  calling 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  55 

him  a  "  drunken  wretch."  That  Mike  had  then  rushed 
upon  the  boy,  who  was  without  means  of  defence,  and 
beaten  him  with  his  hoe,  until  he  had  cut  and  bruised 
him  horribly.  Ellen  had  run,  screaming  for  help ; 
but  before  any  one  could  get  to  the  spot,  Henry  was 
dead.  That  Mike  had  been  taken,  and  the  Justice 
was  wanted  immediately. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  cried  Elsie,  "what  will  come 
next  ?  Is  there  to  be  no  end  of  these  terrors  ?  Poor 
Mrs.  Falconer !  her  favorite  son  killed, — murdered  ! 
And  Mrs.  Dugan's  only  son  a  murderer  !  The  wretched 
mother  of  such  a  son !  Oh !  I  would  rather  all  of 
mine  were  murdered,  than  that  I  should  live  to  see 
one  of  them  guilty  of  such  a  deed ! " 

"  It  was  liquor  did  it,  ma'am,"  said  the  constable, 
respectfully.  "  Nothing  but  the  liquor.  Young  Fal- 
coner had  n't  a  better  friend  in  the  township  than 
Mike  Dugan,  before  he  took  to  drink.  He  was  en- 
gaged to  Ellen,  they  say,  and  she  turned  him  off  after 
he  took  to  drinking.  It  is  a  pity,  I  think,  that  the 
Squire  ever  let  him  have  that  situation  under  Kit,  in 
the  'Still-house.'  It's  been  the  spoiling  of  him.  He 
was  the  smartest  boy  in  the  town  when  his  father 
died,  two  years  ago."^ 

"  Yes,"  said  Elsie,  her  face  white  as  marble,  and 
the  great  sweat-drops  standing  on  her  brow;  "yes, 
and  it  was  to  help  his  mother — that  good,  noble 
mother,  who  gave  up  even  her  widow's  dower  to  her 
husband's  creditors — that  he  took  the  position.  Oh! 
he  asked  of  us  bread,  and  we  gave  him  a  stone." 

"  Go  home  to  the  children,  Elsie!"  said  the  magis- 


56  ELSIE    MAG  DON;     OR, 

trate,  in  a  tone  of  authority  that  brought  "the  blood 
back  again  to  her  cheeks  and  lips.  "I  shall  not 
probably  be  back  till  late."  So  saying,  he  turned 
abruptly  from  his  wife,  and  went  his  way. 

She  watched  their  receding  figures  till  they  were 
lost  in  a  turn  of  the  road,  and  then,  folding  her 
arms  across  her  breast,  walked  firmly  toward  the 
house. 

But  who  shall  tell  the  agony  of  that  fearful  hour, 
when  the  horrors  which  she  had  so  vividly  foreseen 
from  the  erection  of  the  fatal  "Still-house,"  seemed 
thickening  about  them? — when  that  most  bitter  dreg 
was  added  to  her  cup  of  torture,  the  suspicion  that 
the  husband  of  her  youth  and  love,  the  father  of  her 
children,  was  not  only  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man 
responsible  for  the  most  fearful  of  evils,  the  ghastliest 
of  crimes,  but  that  his  own  self-respect  and  manhood 
were  falling  under  the  power  of  this  curse.  "Oh, 
God!  oh,  God!"  she  cried,  as  she  strode  rapidly  on 
in  the  deepening  twilight.  "  Oh,  God !  my  cup  is 
full  to  overflowing — have  mercy,  have  mercy,  I  pray !" 
And  she  pressed  one  hand  violently  upon  her  breast, 
and  the  other  over  her  mouth,  as  if  she  had  already 
quaifed  deeply  of  the  bitter  draught,  and  were  re- 
pelling what  remained.  Then  bursting  into  tears, 
she  sobbed  out,  "Oh!  Eichard,  Richard!  better,  far 
better,  that  we  should  have  struggled  on  in  poverty, 
toiling  day  by  day  for  bread,  than  that  we  should 
have  made  wealth  at  so  fearful  a  cost !  But  I  must 
be  cabn,  and  let  no  word  or  look  betray  my  terrible 


THE    OLD    STILL- HO  USE.  57 

suspicions^    I  must  work,  work,  work  !     But  oh,  my 
God !  where,  where  shall  I  begin  ?  " 

Having  reached  her  home,  she  seated  herself  on  the 
doorstep, — she  could  not  venture  in  until  she  was 
calmer ;  and  the  quiet  stars  looking  down  from  their 
far  heights  upon  her,  seemed  comforting  in  their 
serenity  and  peace.  And  there  beneath  them,  she 
renewed  her  vow  to  work,  by  day  and  by  night, 
against  the  monster  that  was  filling  so  many  hearts 
with  anguish,  so  many  homes  with  desolation  and 
death.  Ajjc!  so  many  homes! — was  not  hers,  would 
it  not  also  be  one  of  them?  And  by  an  instinctive 
movement  she  leaped  to  her  feet  and  turned  sharply 
round  to  see  if  even  now  the  flames  had  not  seized  it, 
or  some  frightful  calamity  overtaken  it.  There  it 
stood !  the  home  of  her  beloved,  free  from  all  appar- 
ent evil ;  the  star-light  clung  lovingly  about  it,  the 
tender  vines  hung  their  festoons  of  beauty  and  grace 
upon  it.  But  through  all  this  vision  of  its  peace  and 
loveliness,  she  saw  fearful  shadows  threatening  it, — 
fierce  fiendish  shapes  closing  about  it, — until,  to  shut 
out  all,  she  sank  again  upon  the  step  where  he  had  so 
often  sat  with  her  beneath  the  holy  stars,  when  their 
hearts  were  as  peaceful  and  unclouded.  She  wept 
long  and  bitterly,  but  less  for  herself  than  for  others — 
for  the  woes  which  one  dearer  to  her  than  her  own 
life,  was  indirectly  inflicting  upon  the  innocent  and 
helpless.  As  she  wept,  her  soul  grew  calmer,  and 
strengthened  against  the  future;  and  at  length  she 
arose,  went  quietly  in,  kissed  each  of  the  dear  ones 


58  EL  S I E   MA  GOO  N. 

who  were  sleeping  the  sleep  of  unconsciousness  amid 
all  the  evils  which  menaced  them, — although  each 
kiss  smote  her  with  a  spasm  of  pain  as  it  wakened 
the  memory  of  those  other  sorrowing  mothers, — and, 
tearing  herself  unwillingly  from  them  all,  she  went 
to  her  lonely  chamber  to  cast  herself  anew  upon  the 
bosom  of  Infinite  Love. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  funeral  of  Henry  Falconer  was  a  solemn 
scene.  But  the  most  solemn  feature  of  it  was 
the  presentation  of  Deacon  Peters'  temperance  pledge. 
Years  had  whitened  the  old  man's  locks,  and  bowed 
his  frame,  and  deepened  the  furrows  upon  his  brow ; 
but  it  had  not  deadened  the  fire  and  energy  of  his 
heart.  His  words  were  measured  and  slow,  but  their 
force  was  unabated.  He  spoke  to  the  multitude  in 
earnest  tones,  and  begged,  with  pleading  tears,  that 
the  young  should  come  forth  and  pledge  themselves 
to  abstain  from  the  beverages  which  had  brought  such 
woe  upon  the  people. 

The  old  men  bowed  their  heads  under  the  influ- 
ence of  his  fervid  appeals,  the  women  gave  their 
emotion  vent  in  quiet  tears,  while  the  young  wept 
openly  in  the  fulness  of  their  feeling.  But  not  one 
of  all  the  crowd  dared  turn  at  the  old  man's  entreaty, 
and  come  forward  to  sign  the  pledge  of  "  total  ab- 
stinence from  all  that  can  intoxicate." 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  he  repeated  the  call.  He  be- 
sought them  by  the  blood  of  the  young  man,  sent  to 
his  last  account  without  a  moment's  warning ;  by  the 
agonizing  sorrow  of  the  murderer,  whose  fate  was 
even  more  terrible  than  that  of  him  who  had  fallen 
by  his  hand.     He  portrayed  the  woe  of  the  aged  and 

(69) 


GO  ELSIE   MAG  O  OX;    OR, 

doaUy  ^rido\red  mother ;  for  her  son  had  stood  in 
the  place  of  his  fether  till  the  power  of  temptation 
had  ovefcome  him.  He  spoke  of  the  probable  punish- 
ment. He  glanced  over  the  past  five  vears  of  misrule 
in  the  ndgfaboriiood.  He  alluded  to  the  burial  of  Scott. 
"  Hx&k  thai,"  he  cried,  with  tones  of  honest  feeling, 
"even  then  I  woold  have  gathered  von  tinder  the 
wings  of  temperance,  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  brood ; 
bat  ye  wiraJd  not.  Oh!  will  ye  wait  until  your 
lionieB  and  hearts  are  all  made  desolate  as  these  have 
been,  or  will  yoa  come  now,  and  thus  bring  peace 
and  quiet  to  your  souls?  Is  tfaea^  not  <M>e  here  to 
join  with  me  in  this  self^enial — net  tmef  Tiot  one  f" 

Slowly,  in  the  back  of  the  hooa^  bat  in  full  view 
of  the  congregation,  rose  Elsie  Mj^orai ;  and,  with 
&ce  pale  as  marble,  bat  with  firm  step,  ap|Hoadied 
the  altar  bdiind  which  the  (dd  man  stood,  and  tiding 
the  pen  and  pledge  from  his  hand,  tamed,  and  plac- 
ing diem  ap(m  the  oc^Kn,  between  her  and  the  peopl^ 
ddiberaftdy  agned  hsr  name  to  tiie  pledge — a  pledge 
that  reqnired  her  not  only  to  ab^ain  from  the  use  of 
ardent  spirits  hexselij  bat  ''to  oseall  reasmiable  means 
far  its  exdosion  finom  the  nei^bmrhood." 

When  she  had  written  her  name,  she  lifted  her 
head,  and,  lookii^  at  the  pec^l^said  inadear  Toio^ 
"I  have  done  what  I  bdieve  to  be  li^t;  if  every 
one  here  would  ob^  the  voice  of  consraeno^  my 
name  woold  not  stand  ahne."  Mrs.  Col.  Farsmcs,  a 
beautiful  and  good  wranan, rose  partly  fix>m  her  seat; 
bot  the  stroi^  hand  of  her  hosfaand  was  laid  upon 
hfer  arm,  and  she  shrank  back  again.     In  another 


THE   OLD    STILL-HOVSE.  61 

part  of  the  house,  a  young  wife  rose,  and  advanced  a 
step,  when  the  husband  caught  his  hat,  twitched  her 
sleeve  and  left  the  house.  No  others  dared  come  for- 
ward; and  Elsie,  looking  over  the  audience,  pro- 
nounced solemnly  the  words,  "  Alone !  —  I  can  stand 
alone,"  and  returned  to  her  seat. 

Richard  was  not  at  the  funeral.  His  duty  as  a 
magistrate  had  kept  him  in  the  village,  where  the 
examination  of  Mike  Dugan  was  going  on.  At 
about  the  same  hour  that  the  body  of  Henry  was 
lowered  to  its  last  resting-place  by  the  weeping 
family,  Mike  Dugan  was  thrust  into  the  dark  and 
loathsome  cell  of  the  heavy  log-jail,  there  to  await  his 
trial  before  the  court,  which  would  not  hold  its  ses- 
sion for  three  months. 

The  mother  of  Henry  laid  her  son  to  his  rest  with 
wild  and  uncontrollable  grief.  But  the  mother  of 
the  murderer  saw  her  child  led  away  to  a  doom  more 
fearful  than  death ;  where  the  body  must  suffer  and 
the  soul  writhe  in  torment,  and  the  good  name,  the 
reputation,  be  for  evermore  turned  into  a  by-word 
and  a  curse.  But  no  tear  dimmed  her  eye,  no  sigh 
heaved  her  bosom ;  no  word  of  complaint,  no  moan 
of  despair,  passed  from  her  crushed  heart. 

"  He  '11  be  sure  to  be  hung,"  said  Bill  Briggs,  who 
sat  whittling  a  stick  to  a  point  on  the  fence  beside 
the  office. 

"  You  may  bet  high  on  that,"  answered  his  burly 
companion.  "  D — n  him !  he  ought  to  be  burnt 
alive.     Henry  Falconer  was  a  right  good  feller." 

"  I  'd  pile  sticks  to  burn  old  Magoon's  'Still-hoase,' 
6 


G2  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

and  that  mighty  quick,  if  anybody  would  help  me," 
said  Fred  Wilson. 

"It's  no  use  laying  the  blame  on  the  'Still-house' 
or  the  liquor,"  said  Deacon  Hill,  who  was  standing 
by.  "  It 's  no  use  trying  to  lay  the  blame  where  it 
don't  belong.  A  man  need  n't  get  drunk  if  he  don't 
choose  to,  and  a  moderate  use  of  liquor  does  no  man 
any  harm.  It 's  my  opinion  that  whiskey  only  takes 
the  hypocrisy  out  of  a  man,  and  shows  you  just  what 
he  is.  If  Dugan  had  n't  had  murder  in  him,  it  would 
never  have  come  out  of  him ;  and  I  consider  that  a 
man  has  no  more  excuse  for  doing  a  thing  because 
he's  in  liquor,  than  he  has  when  he's  been  eating 
hoe-cakes  and  molasses  for  his  dinner  —  not  a  jot." 

"Them's  my  notions  precisely,  Deacon,"  said 
Briggs,  the  landlord  of  the  village  inn.  "  If  a  man 
is  a  mind  to  be  a  fool,  why  he  kin,  whether  he  gits 
whiskey  or  not ;  and  it 's  my  'pinion  that  Dugan  will 
be  hung." 

"  I  think  he  will.  Such  an  example  is  very  neces- 
sary in  these  parts,"  said  the  Deacon  pompously,  just 
as  the  wretched  mother  passed  by.  She  caught  the 
words,  and  the  already  chilled  blood  froze  at  its  foun- 
tain. Her  heart  ceased  to  beat ;  her  knees  gave  way 
under  her,  and  she  fell  at  the  Deacon's  feet  in  a  faint- 
ing fit. 

In  a  moment,  a  dozen  of  the  idlers  were  at  her  side. 
They  lifted  her  up,  brought  water,  bathed  her  tem- 
ples, rubbed  her,  and  very  soon  —  ah  !  all  too  soon  — 
she  was  restored  to  consciousness.  Opening  her  eyes, 
and  fixing  them  on  Deacon  Hill,  she  said  to  him: 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  03 

"  It  was  you,  Deacon,  that  first  put  the  accursed  cu[> 
to  the  lips  of  my  boy.  You  told  him  '  to  driuk  and 
be  a  man  —  that  he  was  too  big  to  be  hanging  to  his 
mother's  apron-strings.'  If  he  dies,  his  blood  be  upon 
your  head  !  He  never  disobeyed  me  till  you  sneered 
at  his  integrity,  and  taught  him  to  despise  my  counsel." 

The  Deacon  shrank  back;  and  Sam  Briggs,  whose 
heart  was  really  not  bad,  insisted  upon  helping  her 
home.  But  she  waved  him  away,  and  calmly  and 
silently  went  her  way  to  her  desolate  house  by  the 
wayside. 

The  ceremonies  of  the  funeral  had  ended,  and  our 
heroine  returned  to  her  home.  Richard  was  moody 
and  silent  at  supper,  and  she  did  not  tell  him  what 
she  had  done.  The  neighbors  did  not  report  the 
scene  at  the  church,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
Richard  knew  that  his  house  was  divided  against 
itself  before  the  world,  as  it  had  long  been  in  secret. 

Meanwhile  Mike  Dugan  had  been  lying  in  jail 
awaiting  his  trial.  Now  the  day  drew  near  for  the 
final  settlement  of  his  case.  Mr.  Falconer  and  his 
family  had  great  influence  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
their  sorrow  had  created  great  sympathy  in  their 
behalf,  and  an  equally  strong  feeling  against  the  young 
man  who  was  wearing  out  his  life  in  the  prison-cell. 

We  have  hinted  that  Michael  Dugan  and  Ellen 
Falconer  had  been  warm  friends,  in  the  days  when 
the  young  man's  father,  who  had  been  reputed  a  man 
of  wealth  and  character,  was  still  living.  He,  too, 
had  been  given  to  the  habit  of  the  times,  and  had 
fallen  a  ready  prey  to  a  violent  "Western  fever,  which 


64  ELSIE   M  AGO  ON;    OR, 

seldom  spares  its  victim,  if  addicted  to  intemperance. 
After  his  death  the  estate  was  found  wholly  insolvent. 
The  widow  might  have  claimed  her  portion,  but  she 
refused  to  do  so ;  saying  that  those  who  had  trusted 
her  husband  in  good  faith  should  in  good  faith  be 
paid  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  if  there  were  means  to 
do  it.  But  means  there  were  not;  and  when  the 
mother  and  her  only  son  left  their  home,  and  went 
into  the  cabin  on  the  hill-side,  and  she  took  to  her 
spinning-wheel  for  a  living,  while  he  went  out  to 
labor  upon  the  farms,  everybody  admired  her  sterling 
honesty,  and  was  ready  to  give  her  a  helping  hand. 

Squire  Falconer,  while  he  was  willing  to  assist 
the  widow,  peremptorily  forbade  Ellen  to  have  any- 
thing more  to  do  with  the  son.  Ellen,  for  the  most 
part,  obeyed  the  father's  mandate,  although  her  heart 
rebelled ;  hoping  that  ere  long  her  lover,  by  careful 
industry,  would  become  reinstated  in  her  father's  good 
opinion. 

In  the  mean  time,  Michael  went  to  work  with 
Deacon  Hill.  He  was  laboring  under  the  double 
affliction  of  his  father's  death  and  the  downfall  of  his 
fortunes ;  and  in  addition,  was  made  to  believe,  by 
Henry  Falconer,  that  Ellen  had  of  her  own  free  will 
discarded  him,  because  of  his  altered  fortunes.  It 
was  under  this  pressure  of  adverse  circumstances  and 
feelings  that  the  Deacon  had  persuaded  him  to  drink 
'•'just  a  drop,"  from  time  to  time,  to  cheer  himself. 
One  step  taken  seemed  to  require  another.  Mike  was 
a  jovial,  true-hearted,  earnest  boy.  His  father's  Irish 
blood,  mingled  with  his  mother's  Puritan  stock,  had 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  C5 

laid  the  foundation  of  a  rare  character.  All  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  new  country  he  had  enjoyed;  and  new, 
with  an  ardent  love  for  his  mother,  and  a  hearty  de- 
sire to  work  his  own  way  honestly  in  the  world,  he 
was  ready  to  labor  wherever  he  could  win  for  himself 
the  means  to  bring  comfort  to  her. 

First,  then,  in  Deacon  Hill's  field  he  had  been 
tempted ;  next,  as  a  clerk  in  the  great  establishment 
of  Richard  Magoon,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
tempters  and  temptation.  But  never,  until  the  fatal 
Saturday, — although  in  his  thoughtful  moments  his 
cheek  had  often  been  reddened  with  shame  over  some 
coarse  word  or  indiscreet  or  unkind  action  into  which 
the  stimulus  of  whiskey  had  led  him, —  had  he  be- 
come so  far  under  its  influence,  and  lost  to  himself, 
as  to  do  aught  which  should  wring  his  mother's  heart 
with  sorrow,  or  his  own  with  remorse. 

In  the  Distillery,  as  manager,  was  a  man  familiarly 
called  Kit,  who  seemed  possessed  of  a  demon; — a 
deep  drinker  himself,  but  never  entirely  overcome,  it 
seemed  a  matter  of  exultation  with  him  to  entice  and 
break  down  every  man,  young  or  old,  who  came 
within  the  sphere  of  his  influence.  He  hated  young 
Dugan,  moreover,  because  he  had  several  times,  in  his 
capacity  of  clerk,  detected  defalcation  and  wrong- 
doing in  the  distillery,  and  called  him  to  account  for 
it ;  —  because  too,  he  had  reported,  at  last,  his  short- 
comings and  abusive  treatment  to  his  employer,  and 
thus  subjected  him  to  reproof.  On  the  Saturday  on 
which  the  murder  had  been  committed,  Kit  had  made 
a  bet  with  young  Dugan,  the  loser  to  stand  a  treat 
6* 


66  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;     OB, 

of  egg-nog,  and  both  to  drink  a  pint.  Kit  had  lost 
the  bet,  as  he  knew  he  should,  and  had  mixed  the 
egg-nog  to  suit  his  diabolical  purpose.  He  knew 
well  that  a  pint  of  egg-nog  would  completely  upset 
young  Dugan;  but,  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
he  made  it  as  strong  as  the  beverage  would  bear  — 
little  less  than  a  half-pint  of  the  raw  liquor. 

Dugan  drank  off  the  draught,  without  discovering 
how  he  had  been  deceived.  In  a  few  moments  he  was 
wild  with  exhilaration,  and  very  shortly  a  disturb- 
ance arose  between  the  two.  All  the  afternoon,  Kit 
enjoyed  the  demoniac  pleasure  of  chafing  the  irritated 
nerves  and  feelings  of  the  young  man. 

Once  or  twice  they  had  come  almost  to  blows ;  and 
Mr.  Magoon  was  sent  for  to  settle  difficulties.  Find- 
ing Michael  in  a  state  of  total  inebriety,  he  dis- 
missed him  at  once,  ordering  him  out  of  the  "Still- 
house." 

On  his  way  home  he  stopped  at  the  corn-field, 
staggering,  singing,  and  shouting.  Here  he  found  a 
new  vexation.  The  boys  began  to  jeer  and  laugh  at 
him  about  Ellen.  "  He  was  a  pretty  fellow  to  be 
looking  after  the  smartest  and  handsomest  girl  in 
town.  No  wonder  she  gave  him  'the  sack'  with 
both  ends  open." 

Each  one  fabricated  a  tale  to  suit  himself,  only  to 
deepen  the  agony  of  the  poor  wretch.  He  drank 
there  again,  and  when  the  time  came  to  leave  the 
field,  and  he  started  oif  alone,  he  had  thoughtlessly 
lumg  a  hoe  over  his  shoulder.     On  his  way  he  met 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  67 

Henry  Falconer  and  his  sister  Ellen,  just  returning 
from  a  neighbor's,  where  they  had  been  on  a  visit. 

Mike  was  yet  smarting  under  the  taunts  and  sneers 
of  his  comrades ;  and,  drunk  as  he  was,  he  remem- 
bered the  hard  sayings  which  they  had  jokingly  put 
into  the  mouth  of  Ellen,  and  determined  to  be  re- 
venged ;  so  he  stepped  up  to  her,  and,  with  an  insult- 
ing remark,  attempted  to  kiss  her.  This  of  course 
aroused  Henry,  who  called  him  a  drunken  fool,  and 
struck  him  a  severe  blow,  at  the  same  time  declaring: 
that  if  he  spoke  to  Ellen  again  he  would  beat  his 
brains  out. 

Mike  did  speak,  and  approached  Ellen  aa  she  stood 
by  the  road-side,  trembling  with  terror.  Henry 
sprang  between  them,  at  the  same  time  dealing  a 
second  blow.  In  an  instant,  the  hoe  of  Mike  fell 
with  all  his  force  upon  the  head  of  Henry,  striking 
him  down.  Blow  followed  blow,  and  ere  three  young 
men,  who  were  in  the  field  near  them,  could  come  to 
the  rescue,  the  fatal  deed  was  done.  Mike  was  hur- 
ried to  the  village  and  committed  to  jail.  In  the 
morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  had  a  dreamy  conscious- 
ness of  what  had  happened;  but  it  seemed  only  a 
dream.  He  had  quarrelled  with  Mr.  Magoon,  had  a 
dispute  in  the  corn-field,  and  an  awful  fight  with 
Henry  Falconer. 

Wild  was  his  terror,  and  fearful  his  grief,  when 
told  that  his  dreams  were  realities,  and  that  he  was 
indeed  the  murderer  of  Ellen's  brother.  And  still 
more  terrible  was  his  agony  when  his  beloved  mother 


68  ELSIE  MA  GOO  K ;     0  B, 

pressed  his  cold  hand  in  hers  at  the  trial  on  the  Mon- 
day morning  following  the  murder. 

"  Mother,  do  not  reproach  me/'  said  he,  in  a  low, 
husky  voice.  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me, 
either.  O !  I  would  die,  or  live  a  life  of  lingering 
torture,  —  no  word,  no  murmur  should  pass  my  lips, 
— if  I  could  only  bring  the  dead  to  life,  and,  with 
him,  peace  again  to  your  heart  and  his!  Mother, 
pity  me, — pray  for  me.  Xo!  no!  forget  me,  but 
pray  God  to  take  that  cui*se  of  all  curses  out  of  the 
neighborhood, — that  'Still-house,'  —  that  entrance 
to  hell, — which  is  luring  so  many  into  its  ravenous 
jaws.  Strive  for  that,  mother,  and  let  me  die  the 
death  I  deserve.  Do  not  talk  to  me,  —  I  can't  bear 
your  voice, — it  pierces  me  like  a  dagger.  Oh, 
mother !  mother !  why  was  I  left  to  curse  you  so?" 

The  mother  folded  him  convulsively  in  her  arms, 
and  clung  to  him  in  silence  until  he  was  taken  back 
to  his  cell ;  and  then,  as  we  have  said,  she  went  away 
to  her  own  home,  and  through  the  long  summer  days 
lived  alone.  Few  saw  her ;  for  all  sympathized  with 
her,  and  none  dared  intrude  upon  her  privacy.  But 
there  was  one  who  spent  long  hours  with  the  heart- 
broken mother, — one  w'ho,  true  to  her  woman's  na- 
ture, showed  her  sympathy  in  two' homes,  and  com- 
forted the  sorrows  of  two  mothers.  Ellen  Falconer 
bad  loved  Michael  Dugan  deeply  and  truly,  and  she 
felt  that  when  misfortunes  came,  her  love  should, 
most  of  all,  have  sustained  him.  But  a  father's  stern 
command  had  controlled  her  generous  nature.  She 
had  however  written  to  Michael,  telling   him   how 


THE    OLD    STILL- HO  USE.  C9 

matters  stood  at  home,  and  assuring  him  that  if,  at 
the  expiration  of  her  minority,  which  would  be  in  a 
few  months,  her  father  still  continued  his  dislike,  she 
should  assert  her  own  independence, — if  he  (Michael) 
remained  true  and  firm  amid  his  trials.  But  this 
note  Henry  had  not  honestly  conveyed  to  its  rightful 
owner.  On  the  contrary,  he  told  Dugan  that  Ellen 
herself  had  spurned  him,  and  that  she  was  engaged 
to,  and  would  soon  marry,  James  Watt,  a  young 
lawyer  from  the  village.  Michael  had  always  made 
a  confidant  of  his  mother;  and  in  the  long,  lonely 
visits  made  by  Ellen  to  the  widow,  she  had  been  in- 
formed of  Henry's  treachery. 

Public  opinion,  as  we  have  said,  was  strongly  set 
against  young  Dugan.  The  general  conviction  was 
that  he  would  be  hung ;  for  the  rumor  had  been  cir- 
culated that  he  had  threatened  'tKe  life  of  Falconer 
before  the  late  quarrel ;  and,  moreover,  capital  punish- 
ment was  not  then  so  abhorrent  to  the  people  as  now. 

The  mother  of  the  prisoner  was  allowed  to  visit 
him  once  a  week.  Elsie  ]VJ[agoon  also  had  asked, 
and  been  once  or  twice  admitted  to  talk  with  him. 
One  Saturday  afternoon  Ellen  called  on  Elsie,  and, 
taking  her  aside,  asked  the  loan  of  a  bonnet,  a  shawl, 
and  dress.  No  explanations  were  made.  That  even- 
ing, Mrs.  Dugan  and  Mrs.  Magoon  sought  the  jail 
in  the  dim  twilight,  and  remained  an  hour  with  the 
prisoner.  After  they  left,  a  keen  eye  might  have 
discovered  a  heavy  butcher-knife  concealed  in  the 
straw  of  his  bed.  Three  weeks  after,  on  the  day  set 
for  the  trial,  when  the  sheriff  entered  the  prison,  he 


70  ELSIE    MA  GO  ON;    OB, 

found  the  cell  empty.  The  breakfast  of  the  young 
man  remained  untasted,  and  his  bed  so  arranged  that 
the  jailer,  in  the  dark,  had  taken  the  old  clothes,  the 
knee  of  the  pants  stuffed  with  straw,  and  an  arm  of 
the  coat  ingeniously  arranged,  for  the  prisoner.  The 
young  man  had  always  been  moody  and  silent,  and 
therefore  the  jailer  thought  it  not  strange  that  his 
face  was  covered,  or  that  he  refused  an  answer  when 
his  food  had  been  placed  inside  the  door.  Under  his 
pallet  of  straw  was  found  a  hole  in  the  floor.  The 
prisoner  had  dug  his  way  out  beneath  the  underpin- 
ning of  the  logs,  where  friends  were  waiting  with 
garments  and  money  to  send  him  on  his  way ;  and 
with  many  a  prayer,  many  a  blessing,  and  many 
tears,  he  fled  from  the  terrible  doom  that  seemed  to 
await  him. 

Not  until  Ellen  had  entered  his  cell,  did  the  hope 
arise  in  his  heart  to  escape,  what  he  believed  just — 
an  incarceration  in  the  penitentiary.  This  he  ex- 
pected ;  and  the  years  of  solitary  thought  and  suffer- 
ing— the  bloody,  lifeless  form  of  Henry  ever  before 
him — were  to  him  more  horrible  even  than  the  idea 
of  the  gallows ;  and  he  fell  into  a  mood  of  sullen 
despair  in  view  of  his  probable  fate. 

But  when  she  entered  his  cell — when  she  knelt  by 
him,  and  wept  her  bitter  tears,  and  bade  him  escape 
the  felon's  doom, — to  be  strong  of  heart,  and  resolvf; 
in  the  future  to  redeem  the  past ;  when  she,  child  as 
she  was,  bade  him  live  and  be  a  man,  for  the  world's 
sake — for  his  mother's  sake — for  her  sake  ;  —  when 
in  the  fulness  of  her  young  love  she  pressed  his  pale 


THE   OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  71 

forehead  with  her  lips,  and  the  electric  current  sped 
to  his  desponding  heart,  to  warm  and  vitalize  it  again 
into  life  and  action, — then  he  sprang  up,  and  with 
the  force  of  one  just  wakened  from  a  frightful  dream, 
he  promised  her  that  he  would  do  as  she  wished ; 
that  he  would  be  all  they  desired ;  and  that  a  day 
should  come,  if  God  would  but  spare  him,  when  the 
world  should  be  willing  to  forgive,  if  they  could  not 
forget,  that  one  maddened  hour  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE  escape  of  Mike  Dugan  caused  great  excitement 
in  the  quiet  village  of  Smithville.  EiForts  were 
made  to  arrest  him,  but  it  was  more  than  half  sus- 
pected that  the  Sheriff  and  his  deputies  took  no  spe- 
cial pains  to  overtake  the  fugitive.  Indeed,  public 
opinion  seemed  —  as  public  opinion  often  does — to 
undergo  a  sudden  revolution. 

Ellen  Falconer,  who,  in  consideration  of  her  deep 
grief  at  the  time  of  the  first  trial,  had  not  been  called 
upon  as  a  witness,  had  since  given  her  deposition  •  and 
the  statement  that  Henry  had  struck  Mike  twice 
before  Mike  had  made  the  assault,  put  a  new  face 
upon  the  affair  altogether ;  for  the  young  men  had  all 
testified  that  they  knew  of  no  quarrel  between  the 
two,  and  had  therefore  believed  the  attack  of  Mike  to 
be  unprovoked. 

Then,  too,  the  treachery  of  Kit ,  the  falseness 

of  young  Falconer  —  his  deception  in  telling  Mike 
that  Helen  had  spurned  him  for  his  poverty's  sake, 
also  became  known,  and  there  were  few  who  did  not 
rejoice  at  the  escape. 

The  old  log-jail  passed  under  review  by  the  com- 
missioners ;  it  was  unanimously  decided  that  a  new 
one  was  needed ;  and  forthwith  a  new  one  was  built. 

Mrs.  Dugan  and  Mrs.  Falconer  had  met,  and  with 

(72) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  73 

many  tears,  and  kindly  condolences,  had  renewed 
their  early  friendship ;  and  Mrs.  Dugan  had  soon 
after  left,  to  join  friends  in  the  far  East. 

The  harvests  ripened  —  the  autumn  fruits  fell,  and 
were  gathered  in  —  winter  swept  over  the  fields  — 
and  spring  gladdened  the  old  door-stone  with  blos- 
soms. There  were  births,  marriages,  and  deaths  — 
change,  perpetual  change  —  even  at  the  Old  Still- 
House;  which  yet  groaned  and  puffed,  and  puffed  and 
groaned,  under  the  hill. 

Change  —  aye,  there  was  change.  Deacon  Hill  was 
fast  losing  his  respectability,  as  he  had  already  lost 
his  position  in  the  church.  Squire  Falconer  never 
came  home  from  the  village  sober ;  Major  Brant  was 
going  the  downward  road  as  fast  as  an  ungovernable 
passion  could  carry  him.  Twenty  others,  men  of 
character  and  means,  might  be  counted,  who  never 
went  to  a  raising,  a  shooting-match,  an  election,  a 
militia  training,  or  even  a  school-meeting,  without 
forgetting  what  wjis  due  themselves  as  men. 

All  things  were  changing,  and  all  for  the  worse  — 
and  Richard  Magoon  among  the  rest.  His  farm  was 
running  down  ;  his  barns  and  fences  were  out  of  re- 
pair; his  stock  ill  cared  for;  his  home  neglected. 
Debts  were  eating  up  all  the  profits  of  the  farm  and 
Still-house ;  for  with  bad  management,  and  bad  men, 
there  was  but  little  profit  anywhere.  And  that  early 
debt — that  five  hundred,  to  pay  which  the  Still-house 
was  built,  remained  uncancelled,  and  the  wily  old 
step-father  held  a  mortgage  upon  the  whole  estate. 

As  Richai'd  went  down,  our  heroine  seemed  to  rise 
7 


74  ELSIE    MA  GOO  N;    0  E, 

in  strength  and  courage.  Terrible  was  the  grief  that 
was  tugging  at  her  heart-strings,  but  she  braced  her- 
self bravely  against  it. 

"  "Weepings  and  waitings  will  not  give  me  strength 
for  my  duties,"  she  would  say  to  herself;  "these  loved 
ones  must  be  cared  for  and  educated.  Who  will  lead 
thera  in  the  true  path,  if  a  mother's  love  fail  ?  The 
waters  of  bitterness  may  roll  over  me,  but  I  must  not 
sink."  And  so  she  toiled  on,  patient  and  strong, 
striving  to  her  utmost  to  rectify  her  husband's  mis- 
takes; to  think  for  him  and  plan  for  him  —  working 
earnestly  for  the  good  of  all,  conscientiously  believing 
that  what  was  for  the  happiness  of  the, neighborhood, 
was  for  the  happiness  of  her  own  household.  Hence, 
she  was  often  compelled  to  take  a  bold  stand  against 
what  seemed  to  be  the  immediate  interest  of  her  hus- 
band. 

Five  years  had  again  sped  by,  since  the  escape  of 
Mike  Dugan,  and  great  preparations  were  being  made 
in  the  neighborhood  for  a  Fourth-of-July  celebration. 
The  gathering  was  to  be  held  in  the  grove  near  the 
new  brick  church.  The  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  to  be  read,  songs  sung,  and  Richard  Magoon  to 
address  the  people;  to  be  followed  by  a  dinner  to  be 
provided  by  the  ladies  from  their  abundant  stores. 

Elsie  Magoon  was  chosen  superintendent  of  the 
ladies'  department;  and  a  meeting  was  held  in  her 
parlor,  three  weeks  before,  to  lay  their  plans,  and  to 
ascertain  who  were  able  and  willing  to  volunteer  for 
the  work.  There  were  twenty,  or  more,  present ;  all 
were  animated  and  enthusiastic,  and  tongues  ran  glibly, 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  75 

while  hands  worked  diligently  with  knitting-needles^ 
and  the  hereditary  "  patchwork."  The  items  of  tur- 
keys, pigs,  ham,  beef,  veal,  mutton,  squirrels,  venison, 
rabbits ;  the  bread,  biscuits,  cakes,  pies,  tarts,  custards, 
puddings,  and  all  the  etceteras  of  a  country  festival, 
had  been  duly  discussed  and  arranged ;  the  tea  and 
coffee,  the  sugar  and  cream,  attended  to ;  every  one 
knew  her  part; — when  Mrs.  Enson  let  fall  the  remark, 
that  they  would  need  other  drinks  beside  tea  and 
coffee,  and  that  she  had  some  nice  currant  wine  to 
offer ;  another  had  peppermint  cordial ;  a  third  had 
blackberry  syrup ;  a  fourth,  as  good  cider  as  ever  was 
tasted ;  a  fifth  would  furnish  eggs  and  sugar  for  egg- 
nog  ;  a  sixth  would  give  nutmegs  ;  and  so  on, —  if 
Mrs.  Magoon  would  furnish  the  whiskey. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Mrs.  Magoon,  after  their  rapid 
proposals  were  ended,  "you  have,  with  one  voice, 
vot^d  me  your  superintendent.  If  I  take  any  part 
with  you  in  that  festival,  I  shall  insist  that  neither 
wine,  egg-nog,  nor  toddy  shall  be  introduced  upon 
our  tables." 

"  Why,  Miss  Magoon,  how  you  do  talk ! "  almost 
shrieked  Betsy  Lake;  "  we  couldn't  have  any  Fourth 
at  all,  if  we  went  to  work  that  way.  Every  young 
man  in  town  would  be  a-laughing  at  us ;  they  'd  never 
come  nigh  us,  if  it  got  out." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "Any  young 
man  who  comes  to  the  grove  only  to  get  something  to 
drink,  would  probably  be  an  annoyance  while  there, 
and  had  better  be  allowed  to  stay  away.  I  shall 
insist  upon  this  arrangement,  or,  upon  giving  up  my 
charge." 


76  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;     OR, 

"  La,  now,  Miss  Magoon,  dou't  go  fur  to  be  per- 
ticHar;  you  know  folks  allers  have  had,  and  allers 
will  have  such  things,"  said  ^Mrs.  Tim  AVhite,  the 
blacksmith's  wife. 

"I  know  that  well,  Mrs.  White;  but  can  you  tell 
me  of  a  single  instance  where  they  have  had  such 
things,  that  evil  did  n't  come  of  it,  since  the  da^-s  when 
Noah  planted  a  vineyard  and  became  drunken?" 

"  Did  n't  Christ  make  wine  out  of  water,  I  'd  like 
to  know?"  piped  out  Miss  Ferrill. 

"  Yes,"  replied  ^Mrs.  Magoon ;  "  and  if  any  one  at 
our  party  can  do  the  same,  I  shall  not  object.  But  I 
take  it,  the  wine  that  Jesus  spoke  into  existence  had 
none  of  the  properties  that  produce  intoxication,  for 
we  do  not  read  that  any  of  that  wedding-party  became 
intoxicated,  or  that  the  wedding  ended  in  a  fight." 

"  No  more  they  did  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Deacon  Hill ; 
"  and  I  'm  for  Mrs.  Magoon ;  I  know  just  how  it  '11 
be.  Last  Fourth  the  Deacon  went  down  to  Smithville 
and  they  got  to  toastin'  and  speechifyin',  and  the 
Deacon  he  stayed  and  stayed,  and  he  never  got  home 
till  'leven  o'clock  at  night,  and  he  driv  the  old  mare 
off  the  bridge,  and  come  pretty  nigh  breaking  his 
neck."  ("  Pity  he  did  n't :  he 's  an  old  goose  anyhow," 
tittered  Miss  Lake  to  Miss  Ferrill,  in  the  corner.) 

"  What 's  that  you  was  saying,  Betsy  Lake  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Deacon  Hill. 

"  Oh !  nothin' ;  me  and  Jane  wag  only  talking." 

"  Well,  I  'm  agin  the  liquor  anyhow,"  rejoined  the 
Deacon's  wife. 

"  I  am  fully  with  Mrs.  Magoon,"  said  Miss  Mor- 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  77 

timer,  flic  school-teacher;  "I  have  noticed  that  many 
of  our  young  men  drink  too  freely,  even  at  our  par- 
ties; and,  talking  to  Judge  Icors  the  other  day,  he 
laid  the  blame  upon  the  young  ladies.  Now,  let  us 
all  unite ;  and  if  we  can  have  one  party  without  it, 
and  keep  sober,  perhaps  we  can  have  another,  and  in 
the  end  exert  a  permanent  influence.  I  have  heard 
that  these  things  are  being  done  in  other  places." 

"Exert  a  fiddlestick!"  said  Betsy  Lake.  "I  tell 
you  now,  there  '11  not  be  a  beau  there,  if  there 's  no 
fixins  of  that  sort." 

"  Miss  Mortimer  will  have  her  beau,  and  she  don't 
care  for  the  rest,"  chinaed  in  Miss  Ferrill.  "Parson 
Jones  has  come  out  on  old  father  Peters'  side,  and 
don't  touch  a  drop — won't  eat  apples  if  they  ain't 
sweet ;  so  folks  say." 

"  I  wish  your  friend,  Ben  Allen,  was  as  conscien- 
tious," replied  Miss  Mortimer,  while  a  blush  of  con- 
scious love  and  pride  mounted  her  fair  brow. 

The  blush  seemed  contagious,  for  Miss  Ferrill's 
face  was  as  red  as  a  peony,  and  she  reached  out  of  the 
window  for  a  sprig  of  the  honeysuckle  that  drooped 
over  the  casement. 

"  If  I  might  venture  a  remark,"  spoke  Mrs.  Fal- 
coner, in  a  low  voice,  "  I  should  say  that  Mrs.  Magoon 
is  in  the  right;  but  how  will  the  gentlemen  bear  it?" 

"  We'll  make  'em  bear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Deacon  Hill; 
"  and  as  for  the  youngsters,  if  they  don't  like  the  girls 
better  than  toddy,  let  'em  stay  away,  I  say ;  my  girls 
can  git  along  without  'em,  I  reckon." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  spoke  up  a  little  fussy  woman 


7S  ELSIE  .V.I  0(^0  X;    0  7?. 

in  tl.e  corner,  with  a  voice  very  like  a  screecli-owl, 
"I  think  it's  meddling  with  tiling.,-  that  don't  belong 
to  us.  If  the  men  want  whiskey  and  drinks,  let  'em 
have  whiskey  and  drinks,  and  enjoy  themselves.  It 
looks  mighty  like  takin'  away  j)eople's  liberties  —  on 
the  Fourth  of  July  too!  —  my  man  would  never  con- 
sent to  it,  I  know,  though  he  is  as  sober  a  man  as 
common,  I  dare  say." 

Poor  little  Mrs.  Piper !  she  did  n't  know  that  everj' 
one  in  the  room  knew  that  her  man  was  "unco' 
happy  "  seven  days  in  the  week,  and  twice  on  Sunday. 

"  Let  us  put  it  to  vote ! "  cried  out  a  voice. 

"No!"  said  Mrs.  Magoon  ;  "no! — you  have  made 
me  your  manager.  I  stand  here,  ready  and  willing  to 
take  the  responsibility  and  bear  all  the  blame.  If  you 
will  help  me  this  once,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make 
the  day  pleasant  to  all  parties.  The  young  ladies  will 
doubtless  remember  their  last  dance — the  shame  and 
mortification  that  wrung  their  hearts  at  having  to  go 
home  alone ;  of  leaving  their  lovers  and  fathers  too 
imbecile  to  get  out  of  the  hall.  Some  of  my  married 
friends  too,  have  surely  not  forgotten  the  trials  of  the 
next  day.  I  w  ill  not  act,  if  I  am  to  superintend  the 
dealing  out  of  the  withering  curse  that  spoils  all  our 
enjoyment,  and  turns  our  neighborhood  peace  into 
madness  and  confusion.  I  shall  put  another  vote, 
how  many  are  desirous  still  that  I  shall  superintend 
the  arrangement." 

The  consciousness  of  doing  right,  the  boldness  of 
the  undertaking,  the  trial  that  she  knew  awaited  her 
— all  conspired  to  flush  Elsie's  cheek  and  brighten 
her  eye,  and  her  calm,  resolute  soul  shone  out  in  every 


THE    OLD    Sr ILL-HOUSE.  79 

feature  of  her  face,  as  she  stood  among  them  with 
folded  hands  awaiting  their  decision.  Beautiful  and 
strong  she  looked.  Every  one  knew  her  true  to  her 
purpose,  as  the  magnet  to  the  pole,  and  the  advo- 
cates of  drinking  were  rebuked  and  subdued  before 
her.  Not  one  raised  a  voice  against  her.  After  a 
moment's  silence,  she  resumed  the  subject, — 

"  No  one  here  will  accuse  me  of  a  desire  to  hold  the 
position  assigned  me.  It  will  be  a  labor  and  care 
that  I  have  not  sought  for,  but  which  have  been 
forced  upon  me.  I  have  seen  how  the  demon  of  al- 
cohol has  degraded  us  in  years  past.  I  know  my 
husband  makes  it :  would  to  God  he  did  not !  —  For 
years  I  have  striven  to  prevent  its  use  in  all  private 
ways,  —  now  I  am  ready  to  take  this  bold,  public 
stand  ;  —  those  who  still  make  me  their  choice,  will 
lift  the  right  hand." 

As  if  a  spell  were  upon  them,  every  hand  was 
raised.  So  all-pervading  is  the  influence  of  one 
strong  heart  in  the  cause  of  right.  Few  know  their 
own  power,  or  the  influence  they  may  exert  over 
others.  A  resolute,  determined  "I  can,  and  will," 
has  often  saved  a  neighborhood.  The  bold,  fervid 
spirit  leads  on  the  mob,  and  the  same  spirit  by  its 
subtile  magnetism  can  subdue  it. 

However  much  Betsy  Lake  and  Miss  Ferrill  agreed 
to  disagree  with  Mrs.  Magoon,  they  held  their  hands 
high  in  air,  and  one  would  have  supposed  them  the 
sworn  friends  of  prohibition,  in  the  past  no  less  than 
the  future. 

The  party  of  ladies  separated  in  hearty  good- 
Iiuraor,  and  our  heroine,  elated  with  her  success,  went 
to  her  work  with  a  more  cheerful  spirit  than  usual. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THERE  was  not  in  the  whole  country  a  more  ex- 
pert washwoman  than  Nora  Sweeney.  Little  as 
she  was,  she  had  a  vast  deal  of  physical  force,  which, 
united  to  her  extreme  activity,  enabled  her  to  do  a 
large  amount  of  work.  Soon  after  the  quarrel  related^ 
Nora  was  called  upon  to  wash  for  Mrs.  Magoon,  who 
thought  there  could  be  no  better  time  to  attempt  her 
reformation  than  when  she  called  for  her  dram,  as 
she  always  did  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon. 

"  An'  sure,  Misthress  Magoon,"  said  the  spirited 
little  washwoman,  "  you 're  not  going  to  let  a  puir 
body  wash  the  livelong  day,  with  niver  a  dhrop  to 
warm  and  comfort  them,  is  yez  ?  " 

"Well,  Nora,  I  think  I  shall.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  that  it  is  wrong  to  give  such  things  to 
people,  and  in  future  no  one  will  get  anything  stronger 
from  me  than  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Ye  '11  jist  be  suiting  yersilf,  of  coorse,  Misthress 
Magoon,"  was  the  laconic  reply ;  and  the  little  red 
arms  flashed  through  the  foaming  suds  at  a  vigorous 
rate.  But  not  a  word  more  was  spoken,  until  Mrs. 
Magoon,  who  felt  as  though  her  duty  would  be  left 
undone  if  she  did  not  make  an  attempt  to  impress 
the  woman  with  the  necessity  of  keeping  sober,  again 
took  up  the  subject. 

(80) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  81 

"  Nora,"  said  she,  "  why  is  it  that  you  will  con- 
tinue to  drink  so  much,  when  you  see  the  trouble  it 
brings  upon  you  ?  You  have  little  children  depend- 
ing upon  you  for  support,  and  you  have  nothing 
comfortable  in  your  house,  only  as  you  earn  it ;  for 
Pat  spends  nearly  all  his  wages  for  whiskey.  Surely, 
it  is  bad  enough  for  him.  Men,  you  know,  think 
they  must  drink  to  make  them  strong.  But  I  don't 
think  women  need  it.  Now  tell  me  candidly,  do 
you?" 

"  Troth,  thin,  since  ye  've  axed,  I  '11  jist  say  I  'm 
thinking  it 's  as  much  a  need  for  the  one  as  the  other." 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,  Nora.  You  think 
that  both  men  and  women  would  be  better  without  it, 
and  so  do  I.  But  it  really  does  seem  worse  for  a 
woman  to  drink,  and  fight,  and  do  such  things,  than 
for  a  man.  You  could  get  up  a  first-rate  character, 
if  you  would  only  let  drink  alone,  and  keep  sober ; 
for  there  is  not  such  a  washwoman  in  the  whole  town. 
Then  you  are  so  cheerful  and  happy  when  you  are 
sober — so  witty,  too — and  you  never  deceive  us,  or 
break  your  promises.  If  you  would  but  agree  to  let 
the  liquor  alone,  you  might  in  time  lead  Pat  to  keep 
sober.  But  if  you  could  n't  do  that,  you  could  at 
least  keep  yourself  comfortable,  and  set  a  good  ex- 
ample for  your  husband  and  children." 

"  Is  it  me  ye  're  spaking  to,  Misthress  Magoon  ?  " 
said  the  little  woman,  straightening  herself  to  her  full 
height,  and  dashing  the  foam  from  her  glowing  hands  ; 
"  me  ye  're  spakin'  to,  mem,  biddin'  me  be  settin' 
good  examples,  and  makin'  fine  resolves,  and  tachin' 


62  ELSIE    MAO  0  ON;     Oli, 

my  husband  good  manners?  Indade,  thin,  it's  the 
same  ye  may  be  takin'  to  yersilf.  It's  mighty  few 
fine  dresses  and  the  likes  your  leddyship  woukl  be 
gettin',  if  some])ody  did  n't  be  drinkin'  the  hell-broth 
your  man  is  makin'  all  the  year  round. 

"  Bad  enough  for  Pat,  you  say  !  and  faith  it  is,  and 
too  hard  intirely ;  for  when  it 's  drunk  he  is,  it 's  hoo 
dollars  a  day  that 's  losin'  to  me  and  the  childer,  for  a 
betther  boss  niver  tinded  the  puttin'  brick  in  the 
wall ;  but  when  I  get  drunk,  it 's  only  your  beggarly 
quarter-dollar  for  a  long  day's  work,  and  grudged 
me  at  that!  Strength,  is  it,  it  gives  to  the  men? 
And  which  needs  it  most,  thin,  I  'd  like  to  know  — 
Pat  with  his  great  stout  frame,  and  a  fist  that  would 
send  me  skirting  a  rod  if  he  liked ;  or  me,  that  weighs 
but  a  hundred  pound,  and  am  only  four  feet  six  in 
the  slippers  my  mither  put  on  me?  Strength  it 
gives,  does  it?  I'll  tell  ye  the  strength  it  gives. 
Did  n't  he  come  home  last  Saturday  night  as  drunk 
as  a  baste  ?  Well  he  did.  And  had  n't  I  the  beau- 
tiful supper  for  him  ?  And  what  does  he  do,  the  first 
thing,  but  throw  my  tay-pot  beyant  the  back-log  ?  I 
was  n't  to  be  put  by,  so  I  sint  his  brown  jug  to  keep 
it  company.  Faith,  but  it  was  wroth  thin  he  was,  and 
up  he  gets  in  his  strength,  and  puts  me  out  of  the 
door,  a-shtaggerin'  all  the  while,  and  bangs  it  on  me, 
lavin'  the  childer  screamin'  like  mad.  But  you 
know,  my  leddy,  I  'm  spry  as  a  cat;  so  I  jumps  in  at 
the  back  windy,  and  jist  while  he 's  settled  hisself  on 
the  stool  ferninst  the  fire,  I  switched  it  from  under 
and  laid  him  a-sprawlin'  on  the  floor,  flat  on  his  back ; 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  83 

aud  he  was  jist  that  strong  with  his  whiskey,  he 
could  n't  get  up  at  all,  at  all.  And  did  n't  I  set  the 
table  over  him,  and  dance  the  beautiful  hornpipe  a- 
top,  in  spite  of  him  ?  Troth,  I  did  ;  and  I  can  do  it 
again  whenever  he  gets  the  strength  of  the  whiskey  in 
him.  That 's  the  strength  it  gives,  my  leddy  —  I 
know  ; "  and  Nora  chuckled  with  delight  at  her  own 
exploit. 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  had  n't  been  sober,  you  could  not 
have  managed  Pat  in  that  way.  Now,  will  you  not 
promise  me  that  you  will  not  drink  any  more  ?  Let 
the  men  drink,  if  they  will ;  but  we  women  will  keep 
sober." 

"  Niver  a  bit  will  I  do  the  likes  o'  that  for  yez, 
Misthress  Magoon.  It 's  fools  ye  'Merican  women  are 
makin'  of  yerselves,  sure.  You  jist  lit  the  men  do 
as  they  like  —  drink  and  swear,  and  chew,  and  smoke, 
and  fight,  and  whativer  else  seems  their  pleasure  — 
and  ye  niver  ask  to  share  a  bit  wid  'em.  Now,  if 
there 's  strength  in  the  whiskey,  none  needs  it  more 
nor  I.  If  there 's  comfort  in  the  baccy,  I  '11  take  my 
share ;  and  if  an  oath  relieves  a  body's  conscience,  I  '11 
out  wid  it,  —  if  there 's  fun  in  a  fight,  I  '11  take  a  hand. 
Now,  by  your  lave,  my  leddy  —  and  it 's  askin'  your 
pardon  I  am  for  spakin'  so  freely  to  you  —  if  it 's  not 
right  for  me,  it 's  not  right  for  anybody.  And,  Mis- 
thress Magoon,  don't  be  for  askin'  poor  weak  bodies 
like  me,  to  be  takin'  the  pledge." 

Old  Nora  was  roused  by  her  own  logic,  inconsistent 
as  it  was, —  and  thus  went  on  in  her  mixed  brogue, 
between  Irish  and  Yankee : 


84  /;  L  SIE    MA  a  0  ON;     0  F, 

"  Don't  be  call  in'  on  vie  to  keep  sober.  Just  let 
your  lavin'  off,  Mistlircss  Magooii,  begin  at  home. 
What's  to  become  of  yer  trade,  if  somebody  don't 
drink  the  divil's  broth  your  man  is  so  busy  a-makin' 
from  Monday  mornin'  till  Saturday  night,  all  the 
year  round  ?  And  sure,  is  n't  it  out  o'  that  ye  get  yer 
livin'? — out  o'  the  blood  and  bones  of  us  poor 
wretches  that  knows  no  betther  ? 

"  Don't  ye  taste  the  tears  of  widow  Dugan  in  yer 
tay,  and  hear  the  sighs  of  the  puir  weeping  and 
desolate  Mother  Falconer,  in  the  flut'rin'  of  yer 
ribbons?  Och!  if  it  be  a  sin  to  be  drinkin'  the 
liquor,  ain't  it  a  wickedness  to  be  makin'  it?  It's 
a  long,  long  reckonin',  my  leddy,  will  come  to  the 
likes  of  Richard  Magoon  whin  the  Good  Father  calls 
him  to  a  sittlement ;  for  he  is  rich  and  larned,  and 
has  been  well  raised,  and  can  read  his  good  Book, 
and  knows  better  than  to  be  settin'  a  thempthation 
before  the  ignorant  and  wake,  to  lead  them  into  the 
dark  purgatory  in  this  world  and  the  world  to  come. 
No,  no,  Misthress  Magoon ;  draw  yer  own  kith  and 
kin  out  o'  the  scorchin'  fire,  before  ye  try  to  preach 
the  likes  of  us  poor  creatures  out  o'  the  embers." 

Nora  turned  vigorously  to  her  work.  Her  heart 
was  stung  to  the  quick  by  Mrs.  Magoon's  reproof,  for, 
of  all  the  neighborhood,  there  was  not  one  she  loved 
so  well.  And  now  that  she  had  said  her  say,  she  wept 
like  a  child.  Hers  was  a  good,  kind  heart ;  and  could 
she  have  cleansed  it  of  the  impurities  of  a  misguided 
life,  as  easily  as  she  could  purify  the  linens  in  her 
hands,  it  would  have  been  washed  as  white  as  snow. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  85 

Elsie  had  been  foiled  in  her  first  attempt,  yet  she 
did  not  despair.  The  words  of  the  excited  Xora  rang 
in  her  eai-s  as  she  went-  about  her  household  duties : 
"  Don't  ye  taste  the  tears  of  the  Widow  Dugan  in  yer 
tay,  and  hear  the  sighs  of  the  desolate  Mother  Fal- 
coner in  yer  fluttering  ribbons?"  One  by  one  she 
called  her  children  to  her,  and,  in  the  secretness  of 
her  own  chamber,  poured  out  to  them  her  thoughts 
and  sufferings,  under  the  unholy  work  out  of  which 
came  their  bread.  The  boys  promised  to  abstain  from 
all  contamination;  they  had  not  yet  drunk  a  drop, 
and  pledged  themselves  never  to  do  so. 

Let  not  the  reader  wonder  that  the  work  of  reform 
went  so  slowly  forward,  when  upon  almost  every 
mind,  except  Elder  Peters',  was  impressed  the  idea 
that  the  temperance  movement  was  one  of  sheer 
fanaticism,  if  not  infidelity.  Even  the  minister  stood 
in  his  desk  and  preached  his  sermon  upon  moderation, 
taking  the  text  from  Paul :  "  Drink  no  longer  water, 
but  a  little  wine  for  thy  stomach's  sake,  and  for  thine 
often  infirmities."  Scarcely  a  man  could  be  found, 
wlio  had  not  an  interest,  either  directly  or  indirectly, 
in  the  "  old  Still."  Yet  the  one  act  of  Elsie  Magoon, 
in  standing  alone  in  that  congregation,  and  signing 
her  hand  to  a  temperance  pledge,  had  aroused  the 
neighborhood  to  thought. 

Many  said  "  It  was  wrong ;  no  woman  should  thus 
injure  the  interest  of  her  husband ; "  others,  that  it 
was  "unladylike"  and  "unchristian."  Deacon  Hill 
quoted  St.  Paul  again :  "  That  wives  should  ask  of 
husbands  at  home,"  and  learn  their  duty  there.  Most 
8 


Hi  ELSIE    MAG  0  OS;    OR, 

of  the  women,  and  many  of  the  men,  eondemnecl  her 
for  the  act,  while  others  defended  her;  and  discus- 
sions, long  and  earnest,  were  had  all  over  the  neigh- 
borhood. Talking  and  thinking  are  very  apt  to  elicit 
truth ;  and  more  than  one  of  the  good  men,  who  stood 
high  in  authority,  found,  before  they  were  through 
their  argument,  that  there  were  really  some  pretty 
strong  points  on  the  other  side  of  the  question. 

Amid  this  talk,  which  amounted  almost  to  slan- 
derous persecution,  the  strong-hearted  woman  walked 
on,  unswerving  in  her  duty;  though  every  passing 
day,  darker  and  more  threatening  clouds  gathered 
about  her. 

Day  by  day,  as  the  weeks  rolled  by,  she  saw,  with 
feelings  amounting  to  terror,  that  a  direful  work  was 
being  done  in  her  own  household.  The  flashing  eye 
and  the  irritable  temper  of  her  husband  confirmed 
her  suspicions  that  he  too  was  becoming  a  victim  to 
his  own  fearful  trade.  Yet,  as  her  trials  grew  more 
terrible,  her  spirit  grew  stronger  in  its  resistance. 

Elsie,  the  younger,  now  a  beautiful  child,  budding 
into  early  womanhood,  was  busy  one  evening  setting 
the  tea-table  for  the  harvesters,  who  would  soon  be 
in  from  their  work. 

"Mother,  isn't  Ellen  Falconer  pretty?"  said  the 
child,  artlessly,  as  she  laid  the  plates  upon  the  long 
table. 

"I  think  she  is,  dear,  because  I  love  her;  some 
persons  think  she  is  too  sad.  But  what  made  you 
think  of  her  just  now?" 

"  Oh,  because  Betsy  Lake  and  Susan  Ferris  were 


THE    OLD    STILL-TIO  aSE.  87 

talking  out  there,  in  the  garden,  under  the  lioney- 
suckle  arbor,  all  about  lawyer  Danvers  wanting  to 
marry  her,  and  how  Elleii  would  not  have  him  ;  and 
they  said  she  might  better,  because  he  was  rich  and 
knew  so  much;  and  that  he  would  go  to  Congress  some 
day,  and  that  he  would  make  her  such  a  nice  lady,  and 
all  that;  and  that  she  needn't  be  so  afraid  of  folks 
because  they  got  a  little  the  worse  for  liquor,  some- 
times, for  her  father  got  high  every  day;  and  that  her 
brother  Tom  was  as  bad  as  lawyer  Danvers.  And  then 
they  began  to  talk  about  your  not  having  any  toddy 
at  the  Fourth  of  July, — and  then  they  saw  me  and 
stopped.  It  was  something  about  the  old  'Still-house' 
they  were  saying.  Oh !  mother,  I  hear  folks  say  so 
many  things.  Won't  father  do  something  else  some 
time  but  make  whiskey?" 

"  I  hope  so,  dear." 

"  Mother,  when  I  get  a  little  bigger,  I  mean  to  go 
away,  teach  school,  or  do  something,  somewhere.  I 
won't  stay  here  if  he  don't  quit  making  whiskey,  for 
all  the  girls  now  call  my  father  the  'old  whiskey- 
maker,'  and  I  can't  stand  it.  And  Mary  Truman  said 
to-day,  that  if  my  father  did  n't  make  her  father  a 
drimkard,  she  could  have  a  new  dress  and  shoes  to 
wear  Fourth  of  July,  as  well  as  me ;  and  she  said  it 
was  my  father,  too,  that  made  Mike  Dugan  Jcill  Henry 
Falconer,  and  that  was  what  broke  Ellen's  heart,  and 
made  her  look  so  sad ;  and,  oh !  I  don't  know  half 
she  said ; "  and  the  poor  child  buried  her  face  in  her 
apron  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

"  Elsie,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  there 's  your 


8R 


ELSIE   M  AGO  ON;     OR, 


father  coming  from  town ;  dry  up  your  eyes  and  lielp 
me  get  the  supper;  we  will  hope  that  these  things 
will  not  always  last ;  perhaps  pa  will  not  always  keep 
the   'Still-house;'    I  think  something  will   make  a 

change. 

Richard  discovered,  on  entering  the  house,  that  Elsie 
had  been  weeping,  and  ordered  her  abruptly  into  the 
other  room  :  "  she  was  too  old  to  act  like  a  baby,  and 
have  her  face  in  that  condition." 

The  mother  saw  in  an  instant  that  he  was  in  an 
excised  condition,  for,  like  all  drunkards,  in  proportion 
to  his  manliness  and  tenderness  when  sober,  were  his 
unreasonableness  and  severity  when  intoxicated. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you  too,  madam," 
said  he,  with  menacing  tone  ;  "  they  tell  me  that  you 
have  set  up  your  authority,  and  decided  that  no  liquor 
is  to  be  drunk  at  the  celebration.     Is  that  so  ?" 

"  The  ladies  gave  me  the  place  of  superintendent, 
and  I  told  them,  that,  if  I  occupied  that  position,  I 
should  exclude  all  intoxicating  drinks.  I  left  it  for 
them  to  decide  whether  I  should  take  the  office.  They 
knew  my  principles." 

"  They  know  you  arc  a  canting,  hypocritical  fool ! " 
said  Richard,  almost  stamping  with  rage.  "  I  '11  let 
you  know,  madam,  I  '11  not  put  up  with  interference 
with  my  affairs,  any  longer.  I  '11  see  if  there  is  not 
liquor  to  be  drank  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  because  a 
snivelling  Methodist  says  there  sha'n't  be  !" 

He  had  never  been  so  boisterous  in  her  presence ; 
and  though  her  knees  trembled,  and  her  heart  almost 
ceased  to  beat,  she  controlled   herself,  and  w^ent  on 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  89 

witli  her  work.  Her  quietness  seemed  to  exasperate 
him.  He  was  determined  to  provoke  her  to  a  reply. 
He  muttered  the  most  terrible  curses  and  threats ;  fol- 
lowed her  out  to  the  well,  then  down  into  the  cellar, 
and  into  a  dark  vault  within,  where  choice  food  and 
fruits  were  kept. 

He  stood  near  her  as  she  filled  a  dish  for  supper, 
and,  as  if  to  show  her  his  power,  knocked  it  from  her 
hand,  and  shook  his  fist  in  her  face.  By  an  adroit 
and  quick  movement,  she  passed  him,  stepped  out, 
and  in  an  instant  closed  the  door,  and  locked  him  in. 

Sudden  shocks  often  for  the  moment  recall  drunken 
men  to  their  senses,  or  awaken  in  their  minds  at  least, 
a  dim  consciousness  of  their  condition.  So,  with 
Richard.  He  seemed  to  comprehend  the  whole,  and 
his  pride  would  not  allow  him  to  cry  out.  He  sat 
down  to  await  his  release ;  soon,  drowsiness  overcame 
him,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

A  woman  of  less  resolute  and  determined  will 
would  have  yielded  in  an  hour,  and  released  the 
offender  from  his  confinement. 

Elsie  was  wiser ;  and  bitter  as  were  her  feelings,  she 
resolved  to  bear  the  worst  that  might  befall. 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  she  returned  to  her 
work,  saying  to  Elsie  the  younger,  "  Be  quiet,  and  do 
not  let  Frank  know  that  your  father  is  in  the  house." 

It  was  Saturday  night.  The  men  came  in  to  supper 
— the  meal  was  eaten — the  workmen  dispersed,  the 
children  retired ;  still  the  sad  wife  plied  her  needle. 
Again  and  again,  she  went  down  and  listened  at  the 
door ;  but  his  breathing  told  her  that  he  was  asleep. 
8* 


90  E  L  S  J  E    M  A  0  O  O  X;     O  R, 

"  A/i,"  thought  she,  "will  he  ever  forgive  me — to 
leave  him  all  night  locked  in  this  cold  cell?  Better 
by  far,  to  have  it  thus,  than  that  he  should  waken  in 
a  felon's  cell,  with  the  terrors  of  a  guilty  conscience 
hanging  over  him ;  and  30  perchance  our  children  be 
worse  than  orphans." 

Slowly  and  wearily  wore  the  hours  away.  It  was 
near  morning  when  the  heavy  sleep  of  inebriety  passed 
off. 

"  Elsie,"  was  his  first  word,  as  he  threw  out  his 
arms,  groping  for  her.  "  Elsie !  where  are  you  ? " 
His  hand  fell  upon  the  edge  of  a  shelf.  "  My  God ! 
where  am  I  ?  In  the  cellar- vault  ?  Yes,  I  remember 
it  all  now  —  I  threatened  her  —  followed  her  down 
— I  remember  that ;  swore  at  her ;  fool !  beast !  mad- 
man that  I  am !  Xo  wonder  that  she  turned  the 
key!" 

As  if  a  new  thought  had  come  to  him,  he  ceased 
speaking,  and  knocked  upon  the  door.  Elsie  had 
slipped  noiselessly  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  now 
came  down,  unlocked  the  door,  and  the  t^vo,  Avithout 
a  word,  ascended  the  stairs.  A  cup  of  refreshing  tea, 
and  a  bit  of  toast,  were  made  ready  for  him  by  the 
kitchen-fire ;  and  with  as  much  kindly  affection,  and 
as  little  embarrassment  as  if  he  had  just  returned 
from  town,  she  begged  him  to  eat.  He  sat  down, 
drank  a  cup  of  tea,  and  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  of  toast. 
She  ate  with  him. 

As  they  rose  from  the  table,  both  walked  to  the 
door.  The  cool  breeze  of  summer  fanned  their  burn- 
ing brows.     The  eastern  sky  already  bore  the  gold- 


THE    OLD    STILL- no  USE.  91 

and-crimson  tints  of  morning,  and  a  lark  =prang 
from  his  grassy  bed,  and  uttered  its  cheerful  cry  as  it 
darted  upward.  He  passed  his  arm  around  her  waist 
—  her  head  drooped  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  whis- 
pered, in  his  own  gentle  voice,  in  her  ear, — 
"  Elsie,  my  own  dear  wife  —  I  thank  you." 
Not  another  word  was  spoken.    She  had  conquered ! 


CHAPTER   IX. 

SHE  had  conquered ;  that  strong-hearted  woman  ! 
Not  by  the  force  of  prayers  and  tears  j  not  by  acci- 
dent, or  by  fainting,  and  failing,  and  dying ;  but  by 
following  her  brave  humane  instincts,  and  doing  the 
right  thing  at  exactly  the  right  moment — just  as  a 
resolute,  wise  man  would  have  done  under  like  cir- 
cumstances. 

She  knew  Richard's  temper  —  she  knew  his  pride. 
Though  good-natured  almost  to  silliness  to  others, 
when  intoxicated  he  was  invariably  harsh  and  petu- 
lant to  her.  She  knew  this  to  be  a  very  natural  re- 
sult of  wrong ;  we  would  rather  all  the  world  should 
know  our  shortcomings,  than  those  we  love  best ;  our 
pride  rebels  at  the  idea  that  a  wife,  a  mother,  a  father, 
or  sister,  has  become  cognizant  of  our  sins — and  the 
deeper  the  love,  the  more  galling  the  exposure. 

Thus,  of  all  others,  Richard  mos't  disliked  the  com- 
pany of  his  wife,  when  he  had  drunk  too  deeply.  Too 
proud  to  acknowledge  the  wrong ;  too  proud  to  bear 
patiently  the  look  of  deep  mortification  and  anguish 
written  upon  every  feature, —  spoken  in  every  tone 
of  her  voice, — every  glance  of  her  eye, — even  mani- 
fested in  the  motion  of  her  body,  he  felt  impelled,  by 
his  pride  and  remorse  acting  together,  to  speak  to  her 
in  cold  and  unkind  tones,  and  often  to  treat  her  with 

(92) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  93 

contempt  and  scorn.  It  is  a  fearful  thing  for  a  man 
to  feel  that  the  wife,  whom  he  must  respect  for  her 
many  virtue,  must  lose  her  respect  for  him ;  that  lie 
has  fallen  from  that  high  estate  which  first  secured 
her  love  and  esteem,  and  which  alone  can  continue  it ; 
to  see  her  love  waning  day  by  day, —  to  feel  that  his 
sins  are  only  tolerated  and  borne  with,  from  a  sense 
of  duty.  Many  of  the  thousands  of  instances  in 
which  wives  have  met  a  violent  death  at  the  hands 
of  their  husbands,  may  be  traced  to  this  cause, —  this 
love  turned  into  maddening  hatred  in  the  hour  of  in- 
toxication, through  the  accumulated  fury  of  mor- 
tified pride  and  unendurable  remorse. 

Elsie  was  not  ignorant  of  this  reaction  of  wrong- 
doing upon  the  wronged  and  innocent, — she  had  not 
walked  with  closed  eyes  through  life,  —  and  she  had 
noticed  with  keenest  pain  for  many  months  past,  that 
Richard's  language  to  her  was  less  polite,  less  even 
respectful  than  formerly ;  that  he  had  often  threatened 
her,  although  never  had  come  to  personal  violence. 
But  in  even  his  sober  moments  he  had  grown  mali- 
cious, and  improved  every  opportunity  of  wounding 
and  disturbing  her ;  and  she  felt  that  under  the  stimu- 
lus of  liquor  he  was  becoming  dangerous  to  them  all. 
She  had  felt  compelled,  therefore,  to  put  it  beyond 
his  power  to  do  them  any  harm,  and  she  was  gratified 
to  find  it  result  in  even  a  temporary'  success. 

It  was  now  several  years  since  Elsie  had  signed  her 
name  to  the  Temperance  Pledge  on  the  coffin-lid  of 
the  murdered  victim  of  the  old  "  Still-house."  And 
she  had  labored  day  aud  night  in  behalf  of  the  cause, 


94  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;     OR, 

during  all  that  time.  For  when  the  day's  duties  at 
home  and  abroad  were  ended,  she  retired  into  a  quiet 
nook  of  her  own,  where  none  intruded,  and  wrote  far 
into  the  night  the  thoughts  that  burned  and  plead  for 
utterance,  within  her.  A  friend  in  Smithville  had 
shared  her  secret,  and  given  her  articles  to  the  public 
through  various  journals.  Many  of  these  were  re- 
printed and  sung  throughout  the  land,  from  the  pine 
forests  of  Maine  to  the  flower- wreathed  shores  of  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Now  and  then,  and  as  if  by  magic,  scenes  of  rowdy 
revel  and  horrible  brutality,  enacted  around  and  within 
the  old  "Still-house,"  were  detailed  wdth  graphic 
minuteness  in  the  "Smithville  Luminary."  None 
knew  whence  they  came;  and  many  a  one  who 
thought  his  secret  safe,  began  almost  to  think  that 
fairies  were  abroad  telling  tales  as  in  days  of  yore. 
The  distiller  could  not  read,  and  he  was  one  of  them- 
selves ;  therefore  it  could  not  be  he  who  wrote  them, 
or  gave  information  ;  besides,  he  had  sworn  a  solemn 
oath  that  he  knew  nothing  about  the  matter ! 

Dan,  the  chore  boy,  also  solemnly  protested  his 
innocence.  Mr.  Manford,  the  minister,  denied  their 
authorship,  and  he  was  believed  without  an  oath. 
Nobody  suspected  Mr.  Magoon,  of  course;  and  as 
to  Mrs,  Magoon,  none  dreamed  that  she,  the  hard- 
working farmer's  wife,  the  best  housekeeper  in  all 
the  country  round,  the  woman  who  was  ever  at  her 
post,  often  with  the  sick,  the  afflicted, — and  whose 
whole  round  of  "wifely"  and  motherly  duties  was 
run  with  exactness  and  care,  —  could  ever  find  time  to 
scribble  for  the  papers !     Nobody  ever  suspected  such 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  95 

a  thing;  and  so  the  "Sketches  from  Life"  remained 
a  marvel  to  the  neighborhood. 

An  article,  severe  in  satire  and  truthful  in  detail, 
had  just  been  published,  and  met  the  eye  of  R-ichard 
for  the  first  time  in  Mr.  Compton's  grocery,  where  he 
had  called  to  get  a  dram.  His  wife's  father-in-law 
was  there  on  the  same  errand ;  and  at  least  a  dozen 
more,  of  like  character,  all  intent  upon  cooling  the 
outward  by  heating  the  inward  man. 

"I  say,  Magoon,"  said  la^Nyer  Varnum,  "who  do 
you  keep  as  Recording  Secretary  up  there  at  your 
'  Still-house  ? '  They  must  take  things  down  in  short- 
hand." 

Richard  bit  his  lip,  and  his  face  flushed  with  ex- 
citement. 

"I'll  be if  I  know,"  he  replied;  "I'd  give  a 

round  hundred  to  find  out." 

"Well,"  said  his  step-father,  "just  hand  over  the 
cash,  if  you've  got  it,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  was  the  short  and 
crusty  rejoinder. 

"I  know  that  them  pieces  in  the  newspaper  ain't 
written  nowhere  only  in  your  house,"  said  the  old 
miser,  with  a  sneer;  "that  woman  of  yourn  used  to 
scribble  cute  things  long  afore  you  knew  her.  She 
could  take  off  anybody,  and  \\Tite  a  story,  when  she 
was  a  gal,  as  well  as  any  Philadelfy  lawyer." 

"Oh,  you  would  not  pretend  to  say,  Mr.  Porter, 
that  Squire  Magoon's  wife  would  write  such  things  to 
destroy  her  own  interest,  and  that  of  her  husband,  do 
you?"  said  Varnum.  ^— 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  say  anything  about  his  wife,  in 


96  ELS  IE    MA  G  0  0  X;     O  R, 

particular"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  chuckle,  as  he 
Baw  how  Richard  was  writhing  under  the  new  sus- 
picion that  was  finding  its  way  through  his  muddled 
brain. 

"It's  false  as  the  devil!"  exclaimed  the  latter,  as 
he  lifted  another  glass  of  the  waiting  liquor,  and  tossed 
it  impetuously  down. 

"Well,  maybe  it  is;  but  if  you've  a  cool  hundred 
to  spare  on  a  bet,  maybe  you  can  just  settle  this  little 
account,"  said  the  old  Shylock,  handing  him  a  note, 
which  was  due  for  interest  on  that  old  debt. 

Not  one  cent  of  the  principal  had  ever  been  paid, 
and  little  of  the  interest;  but  instead,  sum  after  sum 
had  been  loaned  at  the  same  place,  until  both  farm 
and  "Still-house"  were  under  mortgage  to  the  old 
sharper. 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Porter.  You  '11  have  to  wait 
till  I  thrash  out  my  wheat,  or  get  in  my  fall  crop." 

"Well,  I  reckon  I've  waited  about  long  enough; 
it's  nigh  on  to  fifteen  years  I've  been  a- waiting,  and 
that's  about  as  long  as  it  becomes  a  man  to  be  patient. 
So  I'D  just  hand  it  over  to  lawyer  Varnum  here; 
maybe  he  can  get  it,  if  I  can't.  But  I  want  to  give 
you  a  word  of  advice :  if  you  don't  want  more  on 
'em  to  get  into  a  lawyer's  hands,  you'd  best  stop  that 
woman  of  yourn  from  signing  temperance  pledges, 
and  talking  about  temperance  all  over  the  country;  — 
she 's  a-ruining  your  business  with  her  canting.  Why, 
she's  set  the  hull  of  the  women  folks  up  that  they 
won't  have  any  whiskey  nor  nothin'  down  at  the 
grove  on  the  Fourth.  Pretty  doings  that,  for  a  still er's 
wife !    Bedad !  if  she  was  my  wife,  I  'd  stop  her  tongue, 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  97 

or  I'd  make  her  take  the  breeches, — one  of  the  six. 
What  do  you  say,  Major?" 

"  I  say,  if  she  was  my  woman,  and  run  round 
as  she  does,  spilin'  my  business,  I'd  let  her  know 
what  was  what,"  replied  the  drunken  blacksmith^ 
who  had  just  stepped  in.  "  Mn  Compton,  fill  us  a 
glass." 

Richard  was  in  a  terrible  excitement.  He  was  not 
sufficiently  intoxicated  to  be  lost  to  a  sense  of  his 
degrading  position,  in  hearing  the  name  of  his  wife 
bandied  about  ujion  the  tongues  of  those  low,  revel- 
lers in  a  grog-shop.  He  almost  reeled  with  dizziness. 
He  stepped  to  the  counter  and  drank  another  dram ; 
then  turning  to  the  company,  broke  forth  with  a 
vehemence  that  no  one  of  them  had  ever  before  heard 
—  threatened  to  horsewhip  the  first  man  who  spoke 
again  of  his  wife  as  the  author  of  those  articles, — 
shook  his  fist  in  his  father-in-law's  face,  and  defied 
lawyer  Varnum's  power  to  collect  the  debt;  took 
another  drink,  and  rushed  out  of  the  store. 

"  It 's  a  great  pity,"  said  Varnum,  "  to  see  so  fine 
and  good  a  man  as  Magoon  making  such  a  fool  of 
himself.  I  don't  want  to  prosecute  this  claim.  Por- 
ter ;  for,  if  you  begin,  his  creditors  will  pitch  upon 
him  and  hook  him  up.  They  will  strip  him  of  every 
cent." 

"  Can't  help  it ;  I  want  my  money." 

"  But  you  are  in  no  special  need  of  it,  are  you  ?" 

"Every  man  is  in  special  need  of  his  own,  ain't 
he?" 

"  Darn'd  if  it '«  your  ow7i,  old  skinflint,"  said  the 
9 


98  ELSIE   MAG  0  OX. 

drunken  hlaoksmith;  "I  know'd  you  wlien  you 
wasn't  worth  a  copper,  and  coukln't  get  yourself  a 
glass  of  grog,  and  did  n't  have  a  second  clean  shirt 
to  your  back;  and  when  you  married  the  Widder 
Stockton,  you  just  set  your  heels  up.  Now,  suppos- 
ing she  'd  a  never  had  ye,  every  acre  of  that  grand 
old  farm  over  yonder  —  the  best  one  in  the  State — 
would  have  fell  to  her  daughter  there,  Mistress  Ma- 
goon.  But  she  married  you,  and  you  got  it  all ;  and 
now  you're  going  about  to  set  a  cussed  lawyer  to 
work,  to  take  that  home  from  the  dead  mother's 
child.  And  how  long,  I  wonder,  do  you  expect  to 
hold  on  ?  You  're  nigh  on  to  the  groaning  time  that 
the  Bible  tells  on,  now ;  and  then  who  '11  get  it  all  ?■ 
You  have  n't  a  chick  nor  child,  and  it  '11  all  go  to 
them  stuck-up  brother's  children,  that  hate  you  like 
pizen;  and  won't  they  scatter  it  though? — won't 
they!  he!  he!  he! — Won't  they  though!"  and 
the  old  fellow,  who  had  once  been  generous  and 
noble,  chuckled  with  delight  as  he  saw  the  torture  he 
was  inflicting. 

"  Oh !  here,  take  back  this  note,"  said  Varnum ; 
"  wait  a  little  ;  Magoon  will  pay  it  as  soon  as  he  can. 
I  don't  like  to  bring  distress  upon  him  nor  his  fam- 
ily, and  his  creditors  won't  let  you  sue  alone." 

Slowly  and  silently  the  old  man  took  the  paper, 
put  it  into  his  pocket,  and  walked  away. 

Richard  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  home  at  a 
furious  rate;  and  the  scene  in  the  last  chapter 
followed. 


CHAPTER     X. 

FRANK,"  said  his  sister  Elsie,  as  they  sat  in  the 
moonlight  side  by  side, "  you  're  'most  a  man  now ) 
what  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  are  twenty-one?" 

"  That 's  just  what  I  was  thinking  about,  Elsie," 
said  the  brother,  winding  his  arm  affectionately 
around  her  waist.  "  If  it  were  not  for  leaving  you 
and  mother,  I  'd  ask  father  now  to  let  me  go  away  to 
school,  but  I  don't  know  what  mother  and  you  would 
do  if  I  were  gone." 

"  Oh !  Frank,  you  must  go ;  though  I  don't  want  you 
to  leave  us.  George  don't  think  as  much  about  me  as 
you  do ;  he  don't  help  me,  and  when  I  feel  bad,  he 
don't  comfort  me ;  he  don't  let  nae  lie  upon  his  shoul- 
der so.  I  believe  he  thinks  it's  a  shame  to  be  loving 
to  his  sister." 

"Oh,  no!  Elsie;  he's  like  other  boys, — thinks 
he 's  more  like  a  man,  when  he  don't  seem  to  love 
anybody,  and  talk  pleasant  to  folks ;  —  George 
would  n't  cry  for  any  thing,  he  thinks  that 's  babyish, 
—  and  so  he  thinks  it  is  to  love  you,  and  kiss  you 
sometimes  just  as  I  do," — and  the  young  man  pressed 
his  lip  to  the  rosy  cheek  that  lay  so  confidingly  near 
his  own. 

"  I  say,  Elsie,  if  all  the  boys  had  such  a  loving, 
kind-hearted,  and  good  sister  as  I  have,  to  kiss  once 

(99) 


100  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

in  a  while,  they  would  n't  be  writing  love-billets  to 
other  boys'  sisters,  would  they?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  don't  love  anybody,  Frank,  as 
well  as  I  do  you.  But,  Frank,  see  here,  don't  laugh 
at  me !  now,  and  I  '11  tell  you.  I  love  you,  oh,  so 
much !  and  I  shall  miss  you  every  day,  and  so  will 
mother  too;  but  what  of  that?  I  don't  want  my 
brother  to  grow  up  a  big  man  and  not  know  any- 
thing— and  be  a  great  booby,  like  Sam  Briggs,  or 
Dick  Hall,  and  such  fellows ;  and  now  harvesting  is 
almost  done,  maybe  mother,  and  you,  and  I,  can  per- 
suade father  to  let  you  go  to  school.  I  am  getting 
large  now ;  I  'm  twelve,  you  know ;  and  I  can  help 
mother  a  great  deal ;  and  when  you  are  gone,  George 
will  think  more,  mother  says,  and  we  shall  do  nicely. 
Willie  too  is  such  a  good  boy,  and  Alice  and  Kate 
begin  to  help  a  good  deal.  Oh !  I  shall  hate  to  have 
you  gone;  but  then,  Frank,  I'll  be  thinking  all  the 
time  about  my  tall,  good  brother,  that  will  be  so 
smart  and  know  so  much,  and  write  stories  and 
poetry  for  me.  Oh,  Frank!  I  hnow  you'll  be  a 
genius^' — 

"A  what!  who  ever  put  that  notion  in  your  head?" 
"Oh,  dear!  can't  I  have  notions,  I  wonder;  didn't 
I  read,  this  morning,  in  the  paper,  how  Webster  went 
to  school  and  turned  out  such  a  great  man ;  and  how 
Dr.  Clarke  did  not  know  his  letters  when  he  was 
seventeen,  and  then  learned  to  write  such  big  books; 
and  James  Stone  learned  his  letters  after  he  was 
thirty ;  and  Shakspeare  turned  out  such  a  great  genius 
— and  I  was  just  thinking  all  the  time,  if  you  would 


THE    OLD    STlLL-nOUSE.  101 

not  be  a  genius  too  some  day,  and  make  us  all  proud 
of  you." 

"But,  Elsie,  I  don't  see  how  father  can  get  the 
money  for  me." 

The  child  was  puzzled  and  silent,  for  a  few  moments, 
and  looked  at  the  moon,  as  if  reading  in  its  broad  face 
the  destiny  of  her  brother.  At  last  she  said,  very 
earnestly,  "Why,  Frank,  you  can  earn  the  'money  for 
yourself.  You  know  they  wanted  you  to  chop  over 
on  that  new  farm  of  Major  Falconer's,  last  year.  Can't 
you  go  to  school  a  while,  and  then  chop  that  wood  for 
him  and  pay  for  it?  You're  big  and  strong,  Frank. 
You  can  work  for  your  board  in  winter,  you  know ; 
and  I  will  spin  harder,  and  help  make  your  shirts  and 
clothes,  you  know;  and  that  will  save  something." 

"I  donH  know,  Elsie;  I  don't  believe  I  can  do  it," 
said  the  boy,  despondingly. 

"Yes,  you  can,  too,  and  you  must  and  shall!  / 
would;  and  we'll  all  help.  There  are  Emma  Wright, 
and  Mary  Truman,  and  Martha,  coming  down  the 
lane.     Let  us  run  and  meet  them." 

The  celebration  at  the  grove,  where  no  liquor  was 
to  be  drunk,  was  the  topic  of  conversation  for  miles 
around.  Deacon  Hill  declared  it  was  usurpation  on 
the  part  of  the  women,  and  said  he  wouldn't  go. 
But  when  Mrs.  Deacon  said,  "Yes,  you  will,  too,"  he 
only  replied, — "Wall,  wall,  I  'spose  I  must." 

Major  Falconer  thought  Mrs.  Magoon  might  have 
let  things  gone  on  the  usual  way.     But  his  wife's 
allasion  to  past  trials  stayed  any  further  objection. 
9* 


102  ELSIE    .VA  G  (^  O  X:    O  E, 

But  Tom  Falconer  doolaro<l  in  favor  of  an  oppo- 
sition jiartv  being  got  np  in  Smitliville.  nnder  the 
head  of  "The  Young  Men's  Club:*'  and  the  Mord 
went  forth,  that  all  the  whiskey,  the  music,  the  flags, 
the  banners,  all  the  gunpowder  and  militarv,  and  all 
the  fun,  were  to  be  at  the  ''  Inde{>endeut  Celebration ; " 
and  all  the  women,  and  tea  and  toast,  and  ministers,  at 
the  "Petticoat  Celebration! "     Party  spirit  ran  high. 

The  death  of  Henry,  and  tlie  consequent  low  spirits 
of  Ellen,  had,  as  the  colonel  asserted,  induced  him  to 
send  Ellen  back  to  old  ]SIassachusetts,  among  his 
friends,  to  be  educated,  and  to  wear  off  the  effects  of 
her  sorrow.  She  had  been  three  years  absent ;  and 
had  returned,  an  accomplished  and  dignified  woman, 
only  a  few  months  before  the  celebration. 

She  decided  for  the  grove,  and  quietly  made  her 
biseuit  and  cake  and  pies.  Lawyer  Danvers  sent  her 
an  invitation  to  the  "  Independent  Celebration,"  got 
up  with  a  great  flourish,  in  red  and  blue  ink,  on  a 
sheet  of  the  best  paper;  but  it  had  no  influence  over 
the  pensive  girl.     She  respectfully  declined. 

Amid  all  the  confusion  and  gossip,  one  thing  re- 
vealed itself  to  the  whole  neighborhood,  to  their  great 
astonishment.  Richard  Magoon  had  kept  sober;  and 
the  distiller  reported  that  something  had  come  over 
the  old  boss,  for  he  had  not  drunk  a  drop  or  sworn  an 
oath  since  Sunday  three  weeks. 

Elsie  made  her  arrangements  with  so  much  pre- 
cision and  energy,  and  so  much,  too,  of  good-nature 
and  dieerfulness,  that  no  one  thought  of  deserting  her 
ranks,  except  the  very  lowest  class, — those  who  love 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  103 

rowdyism  and  vice  for  their  own  sake,  and  instinct- 
ively shrink  from  the  companionship  of  the  virtuous, 
the  orderly,  and  the  good.  Even  Betsy  Lake,  who 
had  a  kind  of  off-hand  shrewdness  and  activity  that 
made  her  no  mean  help  in  time  of  need,  had  not  only 
grounded  her  arms  of  opposition,  but  run  up  Mrs. 
Magoon's  colors,  and  declared  vociferously  for  cold 
water  and  home-brewed  beer, —  loudly  asserting,  "  that 
it  was  a  plaguey  mean  set  that  was  going  down  to 
Smith ville,  anyhow, — they  wouldn't  catch  her  there; 
if  they  did,  they'd  catch  a  weasel  asleep  afore  sunset. 
She  'd  just  made  up  her  mind,  and  determined  as  long 
as  she  lived  never  to  go  to  a  party  again  where  people 
drinked;  nothing  good  ever  cum  to  nobody  from 
liquor-doings." 

The  conversation  of  the  brother  and  sister,  though 
so  abruptly  broken  off,  was  often  renewed,  and  the 
desire  for  education  gained  strength  daily,  while  deeper 
and  firmer  resolves  were  shaping  themselves  in  the 
minds  of  each. 

But  how  were  they  to  be  spared  from  the  great 
farm,  with  its  complicated  work,  to  which  were  added 
the  distillery  and  the  mill,  making  more  calls  for 
labor  than  could  be  supplied  in  this  new  country? 
Every  season  seemed  a  busy  time,  from  the  Christmas 
holidays  to  the  fading  away  of  the  beauty  and  bright- 
ness of  the  autumn. 

In  the  spring,  Richard  would  put  Frank  off  by  a 
promise  for  the  summer.  He  could  not  be  spared  in 
ploughiug-time.     In  summer,  haying  and  liar  vesting 


104  EL  SI E    MA  GOO  N;     O  R, 

required  every  hand ;  it  was  not  possible  tlien.  In 
autumn,  the  wheat  must  be  got  in  and  arrangements 
made  for  the  coming  season  ;  and  in  winter,  wood  must 
be  prepared  for  the  distillery,  the  corn  must  be  husked, 
the  butcliering  done;  and  so  Frank  was  put  off  till  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer. 

Each  busy  season  without,  brought  its  corresponding 
busy  season  within.  The  labors  of  the  wife  and 
mother  were  heavy  to  be  borne.  No  cooking-stoves 
simjjlified  the  labor  of  the  farmer's  kitchen ;  no  spin- 
ning-jennies or  power-looms  relieved  the  weary  day's 
works  of  the  wife  and  daughters ;  no  sewing-machines, 
with  fairy  power,  gave  the  aching  hands  and  eyes 
rest.  The  tasks  of  spinning,  weaving,  and  making 
the  garments  of  the  household,  were  added  to  the 
labor  of  cooking,  washing,  ironing,  cheese  and  butter 
making ;  and  life  was  a  round  of  unceasing  toil  from 
year  to  year. 

"Oh,  this  wool!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Magoon,  one 
June  morning,  "how  is  it  to  be  turned  into  cloth? 
We  must  have  some  new  blankets  next  fall,  and  I  did 
hope  to  get  a  carpet  made  for  the  parlor;  it  would 
look  so  comfortable  and  save  us  so  much  trouble. 
Then  the  boys  must  have  new  suits  all  round,  and 
father  a  new  overcoat,  and  all  us  women-folks,  dresses, 
besides  the  shawls  we  have  been  threatening  to  make 
these  two  or  three  years.  I  wonder  if  I  could  get 
Maria  Goodhue  to  spin  for  us  through  the  summer." 

"  What  does  Maria  charge  a  week,  mother  ?"  gsked 
Elsie. 

"  Seventy-five  cents.     Little  enough,  if  she  would 


THE    OLD    STILL-nOUSE.  105 

do  her  work  well ;  but  she  can't  be  trusted,  she  is  so 
careless,  and  the  last  time  she  spun  for  me,  she  cheated 
in  her  count ;  and  when  the  web  Avas  in  the  loom,  I 
had  to  stop  in  the  midst  of  my  apple-drying,  and  sit 
up  nights  to  spin  and  color." 

"  Mother,  Alice  and  I  can  spin  it." 

"  You  and  Alice !  Bless  me !  it  will  take  nearly  a 
hundred  yards  of  cloth  to  do  us  all  this  winter ;  and 
you  must  go  to  school." 

"  I  mean  to  go  to  school ;  but  I  can  spin  my  day's 
work  and  go  to  school  too ;  and  Alice  can  spin  half  a 
day's  work.  Don't  hire  Maria.  We'll  save  the 
money  and  board,  and  send  Frank  away  to  Athens. 
He  wants  to  go  so  much.  I  talked  with  him  about 
it  last  night,  and  he  almost  cried.  He  says  father 
will  put  him  off  till  he  is  a  man  and  ashamed  to  go 
among  those  that  know  so  much  more  than  he  does." 

"  Frank  must  go ;  but  I  don't  think  you  and  Alice 
can  help  much." 

"  Yes  we  can,  yes  we  can  !  Let  us  try,'^  answered 
the  resolute  sister. 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  we  can  fix  it,  mother,"  said 
Alice,  as  she  deposited  a  large  cheese  on  the  shelf. 
"  I  will  give  Elsie  all  the  time  out  of  the  kitchen. 
May  and  I  will  milk  and  do  the  churning;  and  so  we 
will  all  help." 

"  Well,  we  will  see,"  answered  the  mother,  proud 
of  daughters  so  willing  to  increase  their  own  toil  for 
their  brother's  sake. 

A  few  days  later  found  the  summer  arrangement 
being  punctually  carried  out.     Elsie  spun  her  twenty 


106  ELSIE    MAG  0  OK;     OH, 

knots  before  going  to  school,  and  often  twenty  after, 
beside  helping  Alice  with  the  milking. 

While  she  spun,  her  book  lay  open  on  the  window- 
sill  in  front  of  her,  and  her  lessons  were  thoroughly 
learned  as  her  feet  flew  cheerily  to  and  fro.  The 
shirts  were  made  in  school  under  Miss  Martin's  eye, 
and  the  socks  knit  with  busy  fingers  while  she  was 
reading ;  and  when  autumn  came,  Frank  found  him- 
self fully  equipped  in  fine  rich  homespun,  for  a  &\^ 
months'  stay  at  college. 

Major  Falconer  loaned  him  some  money,  for  which 
he  was  to  clear  a  piece  of  woodland  the  next  summer. 

It  was  a  sad  morning  when  Frank  left  them.  Elsie 
ran  up-stairs  for  a  good  girlish  cry,  and  the  mother 
lifted  her  apron  to  her  eyes  more  than  once  as  she 
watched  his  receding  figure  down  the  lane,  till  it  was 
lost  behind  the  stalwart  trunks  of  oaks  and  maples. 

But  these  tears  were  not  all  of  sadness.  They  re- 
joiced in  Frank's  escape,  and  were  made  happy  by 
the  consciousness  that  they  had  helped  to  bring  about 
his  emancipation  from  unrequited  toil  and  continual 
disappointment. 

"Weeks  will  end,  and  so  did  these  weeks  of  prepara- 
tion. The  glorious  Fourth  was  ushered  in  with  bois- 
terous shouts,  with  firing  of  cannon,  martial  music, 
the  tramping  of  the  military  without,  and  busy  pre- 
paration within. 

Ten  o'clock  was  the  hour  of  gathering.  A  cooler, 
balmier,  and  more  delightful  day  never  made  the 
hearts  of  patriots  glad ;  a  rain  the  evening  previous 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  107 

had  cooled  the  air,  laid  the  dust,  washed  the  flowers, 
paved  and  hardened  the  streets,  and  smoothed  the 
dancing-spot  in  the  grove. 

The  good  farmers'  wives  were  up  "by-times"  as 
they  used  to  say;  cows  were  milked,  cheese  taken  care 
of,  butter  churned,  house  put  in  order,  and  all  things 
prepared  against  the  hour  of  the  celebration. 

"  Lord  a  massy,  gals,  where 's  your  pa  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Elder  Jones,  one  of  the  leading  members  of  tlie 
church. 

"  Drot  if  I  know ! "  replied  Pete,  as  he  went  whisk- 
ing round  the  corner,  full  tilt  after  the  old  mare,  that 
had  a  notion  of  spending  Independence  in  the  pastui-e 
with  the  colt. 

"  I  '11  tell  your  father,  my  boy,  when  he  comes,  if 
I  hear  any  more  talk  like  that,  sir,"  responded  the 
anxious  mother,  looking  after  the  hopeful,  as,  with 
bridle  in  hand,  he  dodged  back  and  forth  in  the  corner 
of  the  yard,  where  he  held  the  old  mare  prisoner. 

"Tell,  then,  for  all  I  care. — Whoa,  now,  stand 
still  there,  you  old  crop-eared  varmint!"  shouted 
Pete,  almost  crying  with  vexation  and  fatigue. 

"  What  a  boy  that  is  !  He  '11  break  my  heart  yet 
with  his  capers.  Dear  me — dear  me!  mothers  never 
know  what  they're  bringing  their  children  up  to." 

"  You  might  a'  known,  mother,"  said  a  bright-eyed, 
pert-looking  Miss  of  sixteen,  who  stood  before  a  cracked 
glass,  ten  inches  by  eight,  curling  her  hair  with  a 
broken  fragment  of  the  tongs,  "  you  had  the  raisin'  on 
him." 

"  Nobody  asked  you  to  speak,  Miss,  said  her  sister. 


108  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

who  was  beating  eggs  for  a  pudding.  You  'd  look 
better  letting  your  hair  alone,  and  giving  a  hand  to 
the  work,  to  help  me  get  things  agoing." 

"  I  can't  stand  it  no  longer,  nor  I  won't  neither,"  said 
Mrs.  Jones.  "  That  man  is  always  behind  time.  Here 
it  is  nigh  nnto  six  o'clock,  and  we  must  go  by  ten." 

"  Elvira  Jane — Elvira  Jane!  come  here  this  mi  nit ! 
What  are  you  up  that  cherry-tree  for,  you  good-for- 
nothing,  you  ?  Go  right  down  to  the  barn  now,  and 
tell  your  pa  to  come  to  the  house  this  miuit!" 

"Yonder  he  is,"  shouted  back  the  child,  who  was 
sharing  with  the  cat-birds  the  last  remnant  of  the 
crimson  fruit  in  the  tree-top. 

Just  then  the  Elder  made  his  appearance  round 
the  corner. 

"  Elder  Jones,"  said  his  wife,  in  shrill  tones  of  dis- 
pleasure, "  if  you  're  agoing  to  'tend  prayers  this 
morning,  be  quick  about  it,  or  it  can't  be  done ;  for 
it 's  time  we  was  hurrying  up  half  an  hour  ago." 

The  Elder  answered  the  summons,  called  in  the 
workmen,  bent  his  knee  in  a  hurried  manner  to  the 
good  Father  above,  thanked  Him  for  blessings,  craved 
His  protective  care  through  the  day ;  and  in  a  sum- 
mary way  dismissed  the  assembled  household,  hurry- 
ing*back  to  give  the  boys  directions  to  spread  the  hay 
on  the  creek-meadow,  to  bring  in  the  oxen,  unyoke 
and  turn  them  out,  and  put  the  black  horses  into  the 
farm-wagon. 

A  merrier  meeting  never  was  held  than  that  which 
made  mirth  and  music  in  the  beautiful  sugar-grove, 
on  that  memorable  day.     Tlie  Declaration  of  Inde- 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  109 

pendence  was  read,  original  odes  were  sung,  and  a  fine 
poem  full  of  wit  and  satire  was  recited,  that  raised 
shouts  of  laughter  and  joy. 

Richard  Magoon  rose  above  himself.  The  weeks 
of  soberness,  and  earnest  reflection,  had  given  tone 
and  power  to  his  naturally  vigorous  intellect ;  and  the 
people  listened  with  earnest  attention  to  his  able  ad- 
dress, and  sent  shout  after  shout  through  the  old  trees 
and  away  among  the  hills.  All  were  delighted,  sur- 
prised, and  instructed, — and  all  were  happy,  for  the 
Demon  of  Disturbance  was  not  in  their  midst. 

Ever  and  anon  the  far-off  sound  of  the  Smithville 
cannon  was  heard;  or  passers-by  called  and  re- 
ported that  "  they  were  going  on  at  a  great  rate  down 
at  the  village.  Lawyer  Marvin  was  so  high,  he  could 
not  speak  at  all.  The  leader  of  the  music  was  drunk, 
and  had  had  a  fight  with  the  drummer  about  the 
tunes ; "  and  every  one  prophesied  a  horrid  time  before 
night. 

The  dinner  at  the  grove  was  splendid.  The  drink- 
ing-glasses  were  filled  with  rich  bouquets  of  flowers ; 
and  those  present  had  never  been  so  happy,  for  there 
rested  no  fears  in  their  hearts  to  mar  their  pleasure. 
Dinner  over,  the  dance  began,  for  those  who  enjoyed 
it;  others  walked  through  the  grove,  or  played  "Phi- 
lander" under  the  cool,  green  awnings  of  the  maples. 
The  little  ones  formed  rings,  and 

"  Here  we  go,  a  ring,  a  row, 
In  Uncle  Johnny's  garden !  " 

added  to  the  general  mirth.     While  the  shyer  and 
more  bashful  boys  joined  in  "Prisoners'  base"  and 
10 


110  ELSIE   MAG  0  OX. 

"  Hunt  the  Fox."  The  old  men  looked  on  and  re- 
newed their  youth, — told  over  the  incidents  of  their 
own  childhood,  or  of  the  early  time  of  the  pioneers, — 
when  they  had  had 

''•The  hunt,  the  shot,  and  glorious  chase, 

The  captured  elk  or  deer  ; 
The  camp,  the  big  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer. 
The  sweet  sound  sleep  at  dead  of  night, 

By  camp-fire  blazing  high. 
Unmindful  of  the  wolf's  wild  howl, 

Or  panthers  springing  by." 


CHAPTER   XI. 


THERE  was  a  matter  of  great  wonder  at  the  cele 
bration,  in  the  shape  of  a  tall  young  man,  with 
dark  eyes,  and  a  sun-burned  face,  bronzed  almost  to 
the  color  of  the  Spaniard.  But  for  a  heavy  beard, 
which  covered  his  lower  face,  he  would  have  been 
voted  a  grand  fellow,  even  by  the  old  ladies ;  but  his 
beard  spoiled  him.  "  How  could  a  man  be  so  un- 
reasonable," no  lady  could  see !    Beards  were  horrible ! 

He  was  introduced  into  the  society  of  the  ladies  by 
"Parson  Manford,"  (as  Betsy  Lake  called  him,)  a 
young  minister  who  had  not  been  long  out  of  Yale, 
and  had  been  sent  on  a  tour  of  missionary  labor  to 
the  out-of-the-way  town  of  Smithville,  which,  in  tlie 
opinion  of  the  Eastern  Missionary  Society,  was  quite 
beyond  the  pale  of  civilization. 

Mr.  Delno  was  received  by  the  young  ladies  with 
a  great  flutter  of  hearts.  Never  had  such  a  specimen 
of  courtly  manners,  address,  and  appearance,  come 
among  them. 

After  the  dinner,  the  speeches,  and  the  toasts  were 
all  disposed  of,  the  dance  began  under  the  trees,  as  we 
have  said, —  not  a  ball,  but  a  cheerful  dance, — to  the 
sound  of  Bob  Jones'  fiddle.  Bob  was  a  blacksmith, 
and  though  he  never  knew  a  note  by  rule,  he  played 
"MunyMusk,"    "Speed  the  Plow,"  "Eural  Felic- 

( 111 ) 


4 


\ 


» 


112  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

ity,"  and  a  hundred  more  of  the  same  sort,  with  an 
energy  and  sjiirit  that  put  life  and  mettle  into  their 
heels,  and  sent  the  country  lads  bounding  a  foot  from 
the  ground  at  every  balance  step. 

Mr.  Delno  selected  sweet  Elsie  Magoon,  the  young- 
est of  the  dancers,  as  his  partner,  and  led  down  a  long 
"  contra  "  as  if  he  had  never  done  anything  else  but 
dance.  Mrs.  Deacon  Hill  whispered  to  Mrs.  Magoon, 
"  that  she  'd  bet  a  cabbage  that  that  whiskered  chap 
was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  Yankee  dancing- 
master  ; "  and  she  deprecated,  in  no  measured  terms, 
all  idea  of  his  being  employed  in  that  capacity.  "It 
would  be  the  ruination  of  half  the  girls  in  town,  to 
have  sich  a  handsome  feller  a-teaching  on  'em."  But 
Mrs.  Magoon  quieted  her  fears  by  telling  her  that  he 
was  a  gentleman  in  the  employ  of  some  government 
organization,  sent  through  the  country  to  examine  it, 
and  report  to  the  department  in  regard  to  its  soils, 
minerals,  timber,  &c.  This  satisfied  Mrs.  Hill ;  and 
her  fears  for  Helen  all  took  flight  when  the  "  whis- 
kered man  "  led  her  out  for  the  next  set. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  There  were  more  dan- 
cers than  dancing-ground,  and  more  feet  than  fiddles. 
The  married  men  seemed  disposed  to  join  in  the  sport; 
and  some  matronly  ladies,  who  did  not  like  to  be 
considered  old,  notwithstanding  full-bordered  caps, 
with  strings  under  the  chin,  moved  their  toes  rest- 
lessly, as  if,  should  any  one  ask  them,  they  would 
like  to  try  whether  they  had  forgotten  the  winding 
of  "  Cheat  the  Lady,"  or  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe."  But 
the  dancing-ground  was  full. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  113 

"  Clear  another ! "  shouted  some  on  the  otlier  siilo 
of  Pete.  "  No  use  standing  still,  while  we  have  all 
creation  for  a  dancing-floor." 

"  Said  and  done,"  responded  a  second ;  and  at  work 
they  went. 

But  who  was  to  play  for  them  ?  Pete's  fingers 
were  already  blistered: — here  was  a  new  trouble; 
when  up  the  young  stranger  stepped  and  offered  his 
hand ;  and  away  went  the  dancers,  to  the  sound  of 
the  finest  music  that  had  ever  echoed  through  the 
grove.  Every  one  was  delighted.  The  old  men 
clapped  their  hands ;  the  old  ladies  kept  time  with 
pattering  feet ;  and  while  their  lips  half  condemned, 
went  back  to  their  girlhood  days,  when  they  "  felt 
just  so."  Only  "  times  were  better  then  than  now ;" 
as  times  always  are  to  those  who  look  back  upon 
them. 

"  My  stars ! "  cried  out  old  Col.  Falconer ;  "  if 
that  don't  beat  all ;  it  makes  me  feel  like  a  boy  again. 
Come,  mother,  let 's  try  a  hand ;  I  can't  sit  still,  no- 
how. Come,  I  say,  we  '11  dance  '  Haste  to  the  Wed- 
ding/ once  more,  as  we  did  twenty-eight  years  ago. 
Come,  Lizzy,  just  this  once;" — and  the  good  lady 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  out,  and  though  a  little 
corpulent  and  rosy,  distanced  all  competitors.  She 
had  not  forgotten  her  boarding-scnool  training,  and 
tossed  her  head,  as  she  turned  her  partner,  with  all 
the  pride  of  her  girlhood  days. 

The  evening  shades  began  to  fall ;  the  whippoorwill 
piped  loudly  in  the  neighboring  trees.     But  the  mirth 
and   hilarity  were   unabated;  tlw   new  fiddler   had 
10* 


114  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;    OR, 

^^^e^  to  renew  them.     Dcaf<»n  Hill  wa=  garrulous 

^^BTwiMg)  while  old  Stjuire  P«iixxly,  who  was  now 

^^Bm:c  and  five,  made  a  rifle  of  his  c-ane,  and  told 

the^^ngsters  of  many  a  gallant  exploit ;  shot  the 

bear  in  the  tree-top,  and  brought  do\\-n  the  ten-homed 

buck  at  his  feet,  with  new  power. 

Mrs.  Dugan,  who,  after  many  wanderings,  had 
come  back  once  more  to  look  uix)n  her  huslmnd's 
grave,  and  renew  old  recollections  and  acquaintances, 
had  been  persuaded  to  attend  the  celebration,  and  sat 
quietly  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Magoon  and  Ellen,  stow- 
ing away  olden  memories  in  her  heart,  until  it  was 
full  to  the  brim,  and  ran  over  at  her  eyes.  "  Ah ! 
Ellen,"  said  8|»e,  "  this  is  indeed  sl  happy  hour,  to 
see  so  much  joy  and  mirth,  and  no  strong  drink  to 
driv^hem  mad." 

fiut  the  thought,  pleasant  as  it  was,  saddened  the 
group  by  the  recollection  it  awakened.  Improving 
^e  opportunity,  the  first  she  had  enjoyed  since  her 
return  of  meeting  Ellen  alone,  she  turned  and  asked, 
"Have  you  ever  heard  from  Michael  smcethat  night?" 
"  Not  one  word,"  said  Ellen,  her  fece  pale  as  mar- 
ble.— "Is  he  living?"  she  asked,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"  I  think  he  is.  I  have  twice  received  notes  from 
him,  through  the  post-office  in  New  York,  dropped 
there  by  strangers ;  but  they  gave  no  clue  to  his|^aoe 
of  concealment.  In  one,  he  only  said :  '  I  am^ke; 
dear  mother,  and  well.  Think  of  me — forgd^Be 
— and  trust  me.  I  will  never  give  you  cau.-^]^in 
to  suffer.'     That  was  all.     In  the  last,  three'  weeks 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  115 

ago  only,  he  inclosed  money  to  build  a  monument 
over  the  grave  of  his  father,  and  bade  me  come  here 
and  see  it  done.  Oh,  Ellen !  if  I  could  only  look 
upon  him  once  more,  and  hold  him  to  my  heart,  I 
should  be  willing  to  die.  Once  more — only  once 
more ! "  The  old  lady's  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  hand 
she  clasped  in  her  own ;  and  the  shining  drops  that 
slid  down  the  face  of  the  fair  young  girl  mingled 
with  them,  as  with  bowed  heads  they  recalled  the 
past.  Yet  not  only  in  sorrow  for  the  past,  but  in  the 
excitement  of  a  newly  awakened  hope  for  the  future, 
did  the  young  girl  weep. 

"  Alive,  alive,  and  well ! "    Nothing  more !    But  all 
possible  future  joy  seemed  hanging  on  those  words, 
all  past  pleasures  revived  in  them.     She  lived  again 
their  youthful  sports  beneath  the  old  beech-tr^ee ,  by     V 
the  river-side,  in  the  glen  where,  when  they  werejbut       '| 
children,  Mike  had  piled  the  turf  and  ston*s,'  f^yer'^' 
laid  them  with  moss,  made  a  seat  and  built  an  arbor 
of  the  hanging  boughs,  for  his  little  favorite. 

She  saw  again  this  shady  nook,  where  the  wild 
anemone  and  blue  violet  still  proclaimed  the  advance 
of  spring;  where  the  forget-me-nots  first  dippe^l 
their  feet  in  the  running  stream ;  where  the  robin 
wooed  his  mate  among  the  bursting  buds,  and  the 
whipJ)oorwill  sang  his  solitary  note  in  night's  solemn  d 

hours ;  where  the  squirrel  garnered  its  winter  store        0 
in  the  lofty  tree-tops,  and  where  in  later  years  the  ^ 

youth  and  maiden  had  often  met  to  repeat  their  c^ild-  ^ 

ish  loves  and  vows.     As  she  sat  dreaming,  her  eyes    -      j| 
falling  indifferently  upon  the  grouj[>s  which  passed         ^ 


116  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

before  lier,  she  became  aware  for  an  instant  of  the 
fixed  gaze  of  a  stranger  among  the  dancers,  whom 
she  had  before  noticed  only  in  the  distance,  ^""ow  he 
passed  directly  before  her,  and,  changed  as  he  was  to 
all  others,  that  glance  revealed  to  her  keen-sighted 
love,  the  lost  and  mourned.  The  discovery  gave  her 
a  shock  of  joy  which  thrilled  through  all  her  being, 
and  startled  the  poor  widow  who  still  held  her  hand. 

"  Ellen,  my  child,  you  are  getting  chilled ;  let  me 
wrap  your  shawl  about  you,"  said  the  good  woman, 
and  with  instant  self-possession,  feeling  that  what  he 
had  not  chosen  to  reveal,  she  must  not,  Ellen  yielded 
to  the  kind  caution  of  her  friend,  and  suffered  herself 
to  be  wrapped  from  the  evening  air,  when  she  was 
glowing  with  warmth  and  joy. 

Lamps  were  hung  under  the  trees,  and  the  sport 
went  on  until  nearly  ten  o'clock,  when  some  of  the 
old  men  withdrew,  with  their  wives  and  small  chil- 
dren ;  but  not  until  they  had  all  been  called  together, 
and  the  voice  of  Father  Peters  had  gone  up  in  earnest 
prayer,  to  "  God  the  only  good,"  to  continue  the  work 
begun,  to  bless  and  shield  each  and  every  one,  until 
the  year  should  roll  round,  and  the  same  great  call 
of  freedom  gather  them  again  in  happiness  and  inno- 
cence ! 

"One  dance  more!"  shouted  Richard  Maroon. 
"  Come,  let  us  all^join  in  a  regular  shake-down,  in 
honor  of  my  wife's  rebellion  against  her  lord  and 
master.  It  will  do  no  harm  for  me  to  make  whiskey, 
if  the  women  declare  you  sha'n't  drink  it.  —  One 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  117 

more  tune,  if  you  please,  INIr.  Delno,  and  then  you 
must  go  with  us  and  spend  the  night ; "  and  Richard 
led  out  his  wife  for  the  first  time. 

All  hands  joined  in  that  gleeful  dance.  Even 
Ellen  Falconer  suffered  herself  to  become  one  of  the 
set,  and  moved  gracefully  through  the  figure  with 
Mr.  Delno,  who  had  the  rare  skill  to  dance  and  play 
at  the  same  time. 

The  figure  ended,  Richard  Magoon  seized  a  glass 
of  cold-water,  drank  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  ladies  of 
the  cold-water  party ;  then  led  off  in  a  hearty  hurrah, 
which  made  the  welkin  ring  again. 

Scarce  had  the  shout  ended,  when  the  sound  of  a 
horse  at  full  speed,  was  heard ;  and  in  another  instant, 
horse  and  rider  dashed  in  among  the  affrighted  group ; 
and  the  latter,  throwing  himself  to  the  ground,  called 
in  a  voice  of  terror  for  Dr.  Harvey. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  was  the  cry  from  many 
voices. 

Almost  fainting  with  terror  and  excitement,  he 
gasped  out — "The  cannon's  bust,  and  bio  wed  up  the 
powder-keg,  and  set  fire  to  the  tavern ;  and  they  are 
all  killed — Tom  Falconer  and  Kit,  and  Briggs,  and 
all  —  oh,  my  God,  give  me  some  water !  Where 's 
the  doctor? — their  brains  are  all  scattered  about,  and 
Olcott's  eyes  are  blown  out,  and  he 's  screeching  like 
mad !  Oh,  don't  stand  here ;  where 's  old  Col.  Fal- 
coner ?     Tom's  a-dying, and  calling  for  his  father ! " 

This,  and  much  more,  was  incoherently  uttered  at 
intervals,  by  the  terrified  and  almost  exhausted  boy. 


118  ELSIE  MAG  0  ON;     OH, 

What  a  scene  of  confusion  followed!  Many  of 
the  party  at  the  grove  had  friends  at  the  village; 
and  one  feeling  of  horror  filled  all  hearts.  The 
younger  children  were  sent  home  with  their  mothers ; 
while  the  men  drove  with  all  speed  in  their  trim 
wagons  to  the  village.  Eichard  and  Elsie  sent  their 
children  home  with  Frank,  and  took  their  way  to 
help  the  sufferers  —  taking  the  elder  Falconer  with 
them. 

Mr.  Delno,  who  stood  near  Ellen,  laid  his  hand 
gently  upon  her  arm.  "  Miss  Ellen,  I  have  a  light 
gig  and  a  fleet  horse.  Will  you  not  ride  with  me  ? 
We  can  reach  there  sooner  than  others."  Speechless 
and  tearless,  with  the  intensity  of  her  emotion,  Ellen 
suffered  herself  to  be  carried  by  the  strong  arm  of 
Delno,  and  placed  in  the  gig.  He  sprang  in  beside 
her,  and  drove  off  at  a  rapid  rate — distancing  all 
others.  "  Ellen,"  said  the  young  man,  as  the  horse 
slackened  his  pace  in  ascending  a  steep  hill,  —  "  Ellen; 
do  you  not  know  me  ?  Have  I  so  changed  that  even 
you,  while  you  hold  my  hand,  and  listen  to  my  voice, 
feel  no  thrill  of  emotion,  no  recognition  of  days  gone 
by?  Then  have  I  lived  in  vain — then  have  I 
struggled  for  naught — and  henceforth  the  world  will 
be  a  blank  " 

"  Michael  Dugan  !  call  not  up  the  past  in  an  hour 
like  this.  Know  you?  Yes — the  first  glance  of 
your  eye,  the  first  wave  of  your  hand,  the  first  word 
that  fell  from  your  lips — I  knew  you ;  and  my  whoit^. 
soul  has  trembled  with  terror  on  your  account." 


THE    OLD    STILL- HOUSE.  119 

"  And  yet  you  were  calm,  and  seemed  unconscious 
of  my  presence?" 

"Only  seemed,  Michael !  My  whole  life  has  been 
a  seeming.  Oh,  I  have  learned  the  lesson  well,  and 
at  a  fearful  cost ! " 

"  Do  not  recall  the  frightful  past,  Ellen,  the  present 
has  its  own  fearful  terrors.  Alas  !  that  our  meeting 
of  recognition  should  be  in  an  hour  like  this.  ■  But 
listen  a  moment,  I  beg  you,  Ellen,  while  I  may 
speak.  I  have  sacrificed  feeling,  I  have  braved 
danger,  resisted  temptation,  struggled  against  fate, 
mastered  destiny ;  and  return  to  you,  educated,  trusted, 
honored,  and  the  possessor  of  wealth.  In  all  this 
struggle — in  all  these  years  of  trial — you  have  stood 
before  me,  beckoning  me  onward,  and  pointing  to  a 
higher  goal,  to  be  attained  before  I  could  be  worthy 
of  you  —  worthy  to  ask  a  realization  of  my  highest 
ideal  of  happiness  in  the  future.  I  did  not  write ;  I 
did  not  make  known  to  any  that  I  lived,  except  my 
mother.  I  wished  that  you  should  be  free  to  act, 
without  the  knowledge  of  my  poor  existence.  I  find 
you  single,  and  apparently  untrammelled.  Let  me 
ask,  even  in  this  sad  hour,  if — if — may  I  hope  — 
may  I  dare  to  plead  for  favor?" 

"  Michael  Dugan,  I  love  you ;  even  as  in  the  days 
of  our  childhood.  But  to-night,  how  can  we  speak 
of  this !  Oh,  merciful  Father !  another  brother, 
another  victim,  to  that  'Old  Still-House!'"  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  groaned  aloud 
in  her  agony. 


120  ELSIE   MA  GO  ON. 

It  was  a  moment  of  fearful  trial  for  Michael  Dugan. 
Upon  the  death  of  one  brother  had  his  hopes  been 
wrecked  for  years ;  upon  the  death  of  another,  the 
future,  so  radiant  before  him,  is  again  shrouded  in 
gloom;  and  a  stronger  and  more  earnest  vow  than 
ever  before  was  breathed  in  the  silent  moonlight, 
against  the  foul  Destroyer  of  life  and  hope. 


r 


CHAPTER   XII. 

WHEN  the  dancers  from  the  grove  arrived  at  the 
village,  a  scene  presented  itself  which  chilled 
their  hearts  with  horror.  The  cannon  had  burst,  the 
powder  blown  up,  four  men  had  been  killed,  and  a 
large  number  wounded.  The  tavern,  which  had 
stood  in  the  centre  of  a  long  street  that  formed  the 
main  part  of  the  town,  was  in  ruins.  The  light 
summer  breeze  had  swept  the  fire  to  the  most  impor- 
tant end  of  the  street,  and  house  after  house  was 
being  devoured  by  the  hungry  element.  The  houses 
indeed  were  little  better  than  kindling-wood,  built 
of  light  material,  and  filled,  many  of  them,  with  in- 
flammable substances.  Little  or  no  resistance  had  as 
yet  been  made ;  for  many  of  the  citizens  of  the  more 
sober  and  earnest  class,  had  joined  the  grove  party. 
Of  such  as  were  upon  the  ground,  a  part  were  ac- 
tively engaged  with  the  dead  and  dying,  and  others, 
too  nearly  intoxicated  to  do  any  service,  were  running 
about  in  wild  confusion. 

The  facts  of  the  accident  were  soon  detailed.  After 
the  day's  conviviality,  while  almost  every  man  who 
had  joined  the  village  party  was  in  a  state  of  partial 
inebriety,  and  many  of  them  furious  in  their  glee,  it 
was  proposed  that  a  gun  should  be  fired,  for  every 
11  (121) 


122  E  L  S  IE    MAG  0  0  X;    0  R, 

State,  as  a  winding-up  of  the  day's  sport ;  and  ten 
o'clock  p.  M.  was  the  hour  appointed. 

"  Leave  our  own  State  for  the  last, "  said  Briggs, 
the  tavern-keeper,  as  they  drew  the  old  field-piece  up 
before  bis  door,  "  and  let 's  give  her  a  roarer  !  I  '11 
furnish  the  powder,  and  stand  a  treat  all  round.  I'm 
bound  to  do  something  oust  in  my  life  for  my 
country ! " 

A  loud  shout  of  approval  answered  this  patriotic 
speech,  and  the  firing  commenced.  Nearly  every 
State  had  its  representative,  and  each  clamored  for  a 
louder  report  for  his  own  native  land. 

They  had  come  to  the  last  round. 

"  Whoop !  hurrah  ! ! "  shouted  the  tavern-keeper. 
*'  Our  turn  now,  boys  !  Let 's  blow  up  all  creation, 
and  wake  snakes ;  none  of  your  pop-guns  this  time. 
Here,  you  Sim  Olcott,  fetch  on  them  brickbats  — 
fill  her  full!" 

"  Better  look  out,  Briggs  ;  the  old  thing  will  bust, 
and  kill  some  on  ye,"  said  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

*lGo  to  the  devil  with  your  prating.  Who 's  afeard 
of  bears  ?  "  was  the  rude  response,  accompanied  by  a 
ruder  and  more  terrific  oath.  "Ram  her  down,  I 
say,  boys ;  fill  her  up  chug.  Don't  leave  room  for  a 
bullet  That 'sit.  AU  ready.  Hold  on!"  And, 
with  an  oath,  the  drunken,  infiiriated  father  ordered 
his  boy  to  bring  out  the  bottle. 

"Here,  you  Tom  Falconer,  give  me  that  torch. 
I  'm  bound  to  touch  this  one  off  myself! "  and  lifting 
the  tumbler  to  his  lips,  he  exclaimed,  "  Now  for  a 
toast, — hang  me,  if  I  know   how! — here  it  goes, 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  123 

though,  hit  or  miss:  'Mistress  Magoon,  and  her 
breeches !  old  father  Peters  and  his  prayers !     Let  us 

blow  them  all  to* "  He  paused  with  a  leer  as 

he  pronounced  the  last  diabolical  word — drank  off 
the  glass,  and  touched  the  torch,  which  he  held  to 
the  powder,  while  a  loud  shout  went  up  from  the 
rowdies  about  him. 

There  was  a  vivid  flash,  a  stunning  report,  a  dense 
smoke, — then  cries,  screams,  groans,  and  shouts  told 
the  fearful  tale.  The  cannon  had  been  blown  to 
fragments,  and  the  little  powder  that  was  left,  burned 
at  the  same  instant.  When  the  smoke  cleared  away, 
a  sight  presented  itself  the  recital  of  which  even  now 
thrills  the  soul  with  terror.  The  landlord  Briggs, 
lay  a  mutilated  mass ;  his  head  cut  from  his  crushed 
body,  and  his  face  stamped  forever  with  that  last  de- 
moniac laugh,  and  the  death-struggle,  blended  to- 
gether. Two  of  the  men  who  were  loading  the  gun. 
Kit,  the  distiller,  and  Billy  Alison,  a  workman  at  the 
"  Still-house,"  were  killed ;  and  an  old  man  of  gray 
hairs,  grasping  a  staff  in  his  hand,  was  hit  by  a  piece 
of  the  flying  iron,  and  fell  to  rise  no  more.  Tom 
Falconer  had  an  arm  torn  off,  and  his  face  burned. 
Blind  and  maddened  with  pain,  he  was  shouting  and 
swearing  when  his  parents  and  sister  found  him. 
Sim  Olcott,  who  stood  near  the  landlord,  had  both 
legs  broken,  and  was  terribly  burned  with  powder. 
Many  others  lay  groaning  and  shrieking  with  lesser 
wounds ;  while  the  shouts,  sobs,  cries,  and  moans  of 
the  bereaved  and  affrighted  friends  and  neighbors, 
formed  a  scene  that  beggars  all  description. 


124  ELSIE  MAG  0  0^';    OR, 

It  is  never  the  wrong-doers  alone  that  suffer  in  a 
time  like  this.  The  good  too  often  share  the  same 
fate;  and  not  unfrequently  the  offenders  escape,  while 
some  pure-minded  and  innocent  one  is  made  to  suffer 
and  die  instead.  So  had  it  happened.  The  old  gray- 
haired  sire,  feeling  that  there  was  danger,  had  risen, 
and  taken  staff  in  hand,  to  go  and  plead  with  the 
revellers  to  desist  ere  mischief  was  done ;  and  thus 
the  good  man — the  patriarch  of  the  village — loved 
and  respected  by  all,  met  his  fate. 

A  fragment  of  the  gun  had  entered  a  window  of 
the  tavern,  killing  instantly  a  fair  young  girl,  who 
had  retired  from  the  party,  with  a  friend,  weeping 
bitterly  that  her  lover,  who  had  brought  her  there, 
was  too  much  intoxicated  to  be  civil  to  her.  The 
flying  missile  struck  her  on  the  temple,  crushing 
the  skull  and  burying  itself  in  her  brain.  She  fell, 
and  in  her  fall  overturned  the  light-stand,  pitching 
the  candle  into  the  folds  of  a  curtained  bed,  that  was 
covered  with  bonnets,  shawls,  and  dresses.  In  an 
instant  all  was  in  a  blaze.  The  surviving  young 
lady  fled  to  the  room  above,  where  the  dancers  had 
paused  to  listen  to  the  sound  on  the  street,  and  gave 
the  alarm.  The  dancing-room  was  the  whole  size  of 
the  building,  and  on  the  second  floor.  There  was  no 
plastering  on  the  rooms  below,  and  the  revellers  had 
only  time  to  escape  through  the  windows  and  doors, 
and  save  the  body  of  the  young  girl,  ere  the  fire 
burst  through  the  floor  and  spread  rapidly  through 
the  room  where  they  had  just  stood.  Before  the 
people  at  the  grove  arrived,  it  had  fallen  in ;  and  the 


THE   OLD    STILL-nOVSE.  125 

whiskey-barrels,  in  close  proximity  to  the  room 
where  the  fire  started,  had  blown  up,  and  added 
greatly  to  the  fury  of  the  fire. 

The  dead  and  dying  had  been  gathered  up  by  the 
crowd  and  carried  to  a  large  ware-room  by  the  river- 
bauk,  as  a  place  removed  from  the  fire,  where  the 
physicians  could,  for  the  moment,  be  brought  togetlicr 
to  see  what  was  to  be  done  in  the  speediest  and  best 
way. 

As  the  party  from  the  grove  came  up,  they  saw 
at  a  glance  the  condition  of  things.  Mrs.  Falconer 
swooned  at  the  sight  of  her  mangled  child,  and  was 
carried  away  from  the  sound  of  his  groans  to  a  neigh- 
boring cottage,  and  left  in  charge  of  Ellen  ;  while  the 
old  colonel  fell  upon  his  knees  by  the  side  of  his  boy 
Tom,  and  moaned  in  piteous  helplessness. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  asked  Delno,  turning  with 
blanched  lip  to  Magoon;  "this  fire  must  be  stayed,  or 
not  a  house  on  the  west  will  stand  till  midnight." 

"But  the  wounded  and  dying — they  need  help 
now — the  houses  afterward." 

"Leave  them  with  us,"  said  Elsie.  "The  doctors 
are  here.  We  women  can  nurse,  but  we  can't  fight 
fire.    Go;  we  will  do  all  that  human  hands  can  do!" 

It  needed  all  the  calmness  and  the  presence  of  mind 
that  could  be  brought  to  bear  to  quell  the  tumult  and 
set  those  to  work  who  were  unhurt.  But  Elsie  had 
all  the  qualities  the  occasion  demanded.  Sensitive, 
tender,  and  shrinking  almost  to  weakness;  yet  was 
she  strong,  resolute,  and  self-poised  in  every  time  of 
danger  and  trial.  Fully  able  herself  to  meet  emer- 
11* 


126  ELSIE  MAG  0  OX;    OR, 

gencies  and  conquer  difficulties,  it  took  her  but  a  few 
moments  to  organize  all  those  fragments  of  a  great 
machine,  and  put  them  in  working  order ;  and  what 
was  a  fearful  chaos,  soon  became  at  least  partial  order 
under  her  direction  and  that  of  others  now  at  hand. 
The  slightly  wounded  were  taken  home;  beds  and 
litters  ordered  for  others ;  oils  prepared,  cordials  and 
soothing  draughts  administered;  wives,  mothers,  sis- 
ters, and  daughters  were  efficient,  now  that  there  was 
one  firm,  controlling  mind  to  guide  and  direct.  Oh ! 
it  was  a  fearful  hour;  but  all  was  done  that  could  be 
done  for  the  sufferers.  Tom  Falconer  and  Olcott  and 
Smith  were  the  most  mangled  of  the  crowd,  and  each, 
in  his  own  way,  vented  forth  his  agony. 

"Oh!  God  bless  you,  Mrs.  Magoon.  I  know  it's 
you  by  the  soft  touch  of  your  hand ;  those  men  are  so 
rough!  I  did  not  think  it  would  come  to  this  when 
I  opposed  you  so.  Oh !  if  I  could  only  die !  Oh ! 
where 's  mother,  father,  Ellen  ^  If  I  die,  tell  them  all 
to  forgive  me.  My  mother  !  Oh !  my  poor  mother  I 
She  taught  me  better.  Oh !  what  will  she  and  father 
do  now  ?     Henry  gone,  and  I " 

Here  poor  Tom  fainted  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood, 
and  in  a  few  moments  breathed  his  last. 

Smith  cursed  his  fate,  breathed  forth  the  M-orst 
oaths,  and  accused  !Mrs.  Magoon,  as  she  held  the 
cooling  draught  to  his  lips,  drugged  with  an  anodyne 
to  deaden  his  pain,  of  being  the  cause  of  all  his  mis- 
fortune. 

"It  was  you — you — you" — he  almost  shouted  at 
her,  "that  did  all  this.     If  you'd  a'  let  us  alone,  we'd 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  127 

a-never  got  up  this  spree,  and  now  see  what's  come 
of  it!" 

Even  so  in  all  time  past,  and  mayhap  it  will  con- 
tinue in  all  time  to  come,  have  reformers  been  accused 
of  being  the  cause  of  the  wrongs  and  outrages  com- 
mitted by  their  infuriated  opponents.  It  is  considered 
sufficient  to  say,  "  You  made  us  angry.  Had  you  let 
us  alone,  we  should  not  have  done  thus." 

While  the  ministering  angels  were  doing  their  work 
within,  let  us  follow,  for  a  few  moments,  the  efforts 
of  the  men  without. 

The  breeze  seemed  to  gather  force  with  the  fire. 
The  flying  cinders  lit  upon  the  houses  and  caught  the 
roofs.  Every  man,  woman,  and  child  were  put  in 
motion.  Lines  were  formed  with  buckets  to  the 
river;  and  the  sober,  sound  men,  under  the  lead  of 
Delno,  worked  like  giants.  The  neat  little  church, 
which  had  been  consecrated  to  the  use  of  Father 
Peters,  caught  from  a  lodging  cinder,  and  already  was 
the  flame  crawling  up  its  steeple  like  a  hissing  ser- 
pent. Directly  beneath  stood  the  parsonage,  both  a 
little  back  of  the  other  burning  buildings.  Into  this 
low  cottage  Ellen  had  retreated  with  her  mother,  and 
was  left  alone  by  Mrs.  Peters,  who  ran  with  her  oils 
and  lints  to  the  warehouse.  The  fire  from  the  church 
soon  communicated  to  the  cottage,  and  before  Ellen 
was  aware  of  her  danger,  the  roof  was  in  a  blaze. 
Her  mother,  who  was  beginning  to  recover  her  con- 
sciousness, on  hearing  Ellen's  cry,  "Oh,  mother,  the 
house  is  on  fire!  Come,  come — we  must  fly!"  sank 
back  again,  utterly  helpless  and  incapable  of  moving. 


128  ELSIE    MAG  DON;     OR, 

In  vain  Ellen  strove  to  arouse  her.  She  essayed  to 
lift  her,  but  the  portly  form  was  too  heavy  for  her 
slight  strength. 

The  flames  crackled  and  roared  above;  the  hot  air 
became  stifling.  Her  mother  must  be  removed,  or  in 
a  few  moments  she  must  die.  "  Help,  help ! "  shrieked 
Ellen,  as  she  sprang  to  the  door.  "Oh,  God,  what 
shall  I  do ! "  At  that  instant  the  tall  form  of  Delno 
strode  past  the  alley  a  few  rods  distant,  followed  by 
strong  men  carrying  a  ladder.  Ellen  flew  to  his  side, 
and  almost  hissed  in  his  ear,  so  terrible  was  her  fright, 
"My  mother  will  be  burned  to  death  —  come  with  me 
— the  parsonage ! "  and  turning  was  back  in  an  instant. 
But  the  flame  met  her  at  the  front  door.  She  stood 
transfixed  with  horror. 

Delno  was  about  aiding  the  men  to  pull  down  a 
small  house,  as  the  best  means  of  heading  the  fire. 
He  paused  only  to  give  a  word  of  encouragement. 
"  Down  with  it,  boys !  Tear  oif  the  roof!  Strip  the 
weather-boards !  Hurry  up  the  water !  Work  away 
— we'll  soon  conquer!  Pitch  those  timbers  over  the 
bank!  Workaway — workaway!"  Then  with  the 
bound  of  a  young  deer,  he  sprang  after  Ellen.  The 
liouse  seemed  one  mass  of  flame. 

"  My  mother,  my  mother ! "  gasped  Ellen,  pointing 
into  the  burning  dwelling.  Delno  comprehended, 
and  dashing  through  the  flame,  which  was  light, 
driven  by  the  wind,  sought  the  fainting  woman ; 
groping  his  way  through  the  smoke,  he  soon  found 
her;  and  rolling  her  in  a  woollen  coverlid  that  lay 
beneath,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  had  just  time  to 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  11:9 

clear  the  threshold,  when  the  roof  and  chamber-floor 
fell  in  with  a  crash ;  the  blaze  leaped  wilder  and 
higher,  as  if  in  wrath  at  its  defeat,  as  he  struggled 
out  of  its  way,  and  laid  his  burden  by  the  side  of 
Ellen. 

The  sudden  motion,  the  jar,  the  unrolling,  after 
such  suffocation,  the  intense  heat,  and  the  glaring 
light,  aroused  the  poor  woman.  She  regained  her 
consciousness,  and  they  were  able  to  seek  a  place  of 
safety.    . 

Delno's  face  was  blistered,  and  his  hands  seared, 
but  he  flew  to  his  post  among  the  men,  nor  left  it  till 
his  work  was  done.  The  fire  in  the  row  was  checked 
by  the  pulling  down  of  the  building.  None  were 
burned  that  stood  back  of  the  row  except  the  church 
and  parsonage;  the  others  were  saved  by  the  perse- 
verance of  the  women,  who  stood  upon  the  house-tops, 
and  did  their  duty  with  strong  hands,  as  women  can 
and  will  in  hours  of  trial. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

DELNO  and  Magoon,  as  soon  as  they  could  be 
spared  from  their  duty  at  the  fire,  repaired  to  the 
warehouse,  to  attend  to  the  wants  of  the  wounded, 
and  make  the  necessary  provision  for  the  dead.  Old 
Mr.  Falconer  was  utterly  incapable  of  thought  or 
action,  and  the  Olcott  family  were,  if  possible,  in  a 
worse  condition. 

"Weeping  mothers,  wives  and  sisters;  fathers  and 
brothers,  with  pale  faces,  which  told  the  iuAvard 
struggle;  little  children,  crying  and  moaning,  with 
fear  and  weariness ;  groups  gathered  together  at  the 
warehouse  and  at  corners,  because  they  had  no  other 
place  to  go  for  shelter  from  the  chill  night-air.  Ruin, 
desolation,  grief,  anguish  of  spirit  and  torture  of  body, 
were  on  every  hand ! 

Richard  stood  at  the  door  a  moment,  surveying  the 
scene,  as  he  entered:  his  eye  soon  rested  upon  his 
noble  wife.  She  was  beside  one  of  the  wounded  men, 
soothing  the  agony  of  his  burns,  by  laying  sweet  oil 
oil  over  his  face  and  neck,  with  a  soft  feather.  Curses 
were  mingled  with  his  hideous  complaints,  and  the 
"Old  Still-house"  fell  upon  the  ear  of  Richard;  then 
the  soft  voice  of  Elsie  stilled  the  tongue  of  the  railer, 
while  her  softer  hand  lulled  the  pain. 

Lifting  his  hat  from  his  brow,  and  wiping  the  dust 

(130) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  131 

and  sweat  of  the  fire  away,  he  turned  to  another  por- 
tion of  the  room,  and  there  bent  Ellen  with  tearless 
eyes,  over  her  mother  and  father,  who  sat  near  the 
mutilated  corpse  of  Tom,  which  rested  beneath  a 
sheet,  ready  to  be  borne  to  the  house. 

We  said  she  was  -tearless.  How  could  she  weep  ? 
Hers  was  a  bitterness  of  sorrow  that  dried  up  tears, 
and  left  her  heart  cold  and  dead. 

There  are  trials  of  heart,  for  which  nature  seems  to 
have  made  no  provision.  Violations  of  the  laws  of 
humanity  and  of  right,  bring  with  them  punishment 
that  admits  of  no  amelioration ;  punishment  which 
the  heart  must  bear,  until  its  pangs  are  washed  away 
by  time,  and  the  wound  heals  with  the  on-rolling 
years.  So  stood  Ellen  in  her  anguish.  Could  she 
have  believed  that  Providence  had  thus  stricken  her, 
she  would  have  bowed  herself  at  the  feet  of  Him 
"  Who  holdeth  the  winds  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand," 
and  soothed  her  anguish  with  the  thought,  "  He  doeth 
all  things  well."  But  there  was  no  such  oil  of  mercy 
to  pour  over  her  burning  heart.  All  was  darkness, 
black,  and  impenetrable.  Richard  moved  towaf'^the 
group,  and  spoke  to  the  sobbing,  moaning  old  man  : 

"Ah,  Mr.  Magoon!"  said  the  Colonel, — his  voice 
broken  with  his  outpouring  grief, —  "this  is  a  dread- 
ful business,  and  I  must  say  it,  your  '  Old  Still-House' 
is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all." 

Richard  made  no  reply,  but  to  press  the  old  man's 
hand  in  silence.  He  passed  to  the  group  gathered 
round  Olcott.  Some  one  called  the  name  of  Magoon, 
with  almost  a  shout  of  defiance.     Olcott  vowed  ven- 


132  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON';     OR, 

geance  "  on  that  Old  Still,"  if  ever  he  lived  to  get 
well. 

Richard  turned  away  again. 

Agony,  deep  and  terrible,  was  stirring  within  him. 
And  yet  it  was  the  agony  of  active,  present  sym- 
pathy, rather  than  of  a  startled  conscience.  "  AVhy 
should  lie  be  so  harshly  blamed  ?  He  did  not  compel 
any  one  to  drink  his  whiskey;  they  drank  because 
they  liked  it ;  he  was  only  doing  as  others  did.  Strong 
drink  always  had  been  made,  probably  always  would 
be,  and  there  would  always  be  found  people  to  drink 
it.  Besides,  cannons  had  burst  before,  would  again, 
witliout  doubt,  whether  he  made  whiskey  or  not." 

So  ran  the  current  of  his  thought.  Nor  was  it 
strange.  How  could  any  one  stand  under  such  an 
avalanche  of  censure,  and  not  strive  for  escape  ?  If 
he  allowed  himself  to  feel  that  these  ills  were  all 
traceable  to  his  door,  how  could  he  go  on  ?  Even 
now,  while  the  groans  of  his  neighbors  pierced  his 
ears,  and  the  sobs  of  houseless,  homeless  women  and 
children  stirred  every  pulse  of  his  heart  with  pain, 
his  eye  was  glancing  into  the  future :  the  gaunt  skele- 
ton of  his  debts  stalked  before  him,  and  with  shak- 
ing, threatening  finger  pointed  to  his  own  family, 
beggared  and  ruined.  How  could  he  give  up  the 
only  business  that  seemed  to  him  of  any  profit  ?  All 
this  passed  through  his  mind  in  an  instant — it  was 
but  an  instant.  The  hand  of  Elsie  was  laid  upon  his 
arm: 

"Richard,  we  must  help  get  these  people  away 
from  here,  before  the  sun  gets  high.     A  litter  must 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOVSE.  133 

be  made,  and  Smith  must  be  carried  by  liand ;  so 
must  Olcott;  their  wounds  will  not  admit  of  any 
rougher  mode;  and  if  not  immediately  removed,  it 
will  take  weeks  to  restore  them  so  far  as  to  make  it 
practicable." 

As  she  spoke,  standing  before  him,  the  beams  of 
the  morning  sun,  which  was  just  rising  above  the 
trees,  fell  upon  her  head.  "Why,  Elsie,"  was  the 
exclamation  of  her  husband,  as  he  laid  his  hand  sud- 
denly upon  her  head,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  your 
hair?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  is  there  anything  the  matter  ? " 
she  replied,  looking  up  at  him  with  weary  eyes. 

"It  is  white — almost  as  white  as  snow." 

"No?" 

"It  is." 

"  I  have  heard  of  fear  and  grief  turning  the  hair 
instantly.  But  it  can't  be  possible.  Yet  I  know 
that  I  can  never  suffer  more  intensely  than  I  have 
to-night.  But  go ;  it  matters  not  whether  my  hair 
be  black  or  white,  these  must  be  cared  for." 

He  passed  out,  and  she  tied  her  handkerchief  over 
her  head,  lest  others  should  mark  and  marvel  at  the 
phenomenon.  Scarce  giving  it  a  thought  herself,  she 
crossed  over  to  Ellen,  to  speak  a  word  of  hope  and 
cheer  to  the  stricken  girl ;  the  poor  girl's  spirit  seemed 
utterly  to  have  failed  her.  She  was  leaning  against 
a  post ;  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  hands  clasped  around 
it  for  support.  She  seemed  to  sleep.  It  was  from 
exhaustion. 

"  Ellen  ! "  said  Mrs.  Magoon. 

12 


1S4  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;    OR. 

She  started,  and  rebbed  her  eves  bewilderinglv. 
Tiyen  slowlj,  as  thev  ran  over  the  grcmp,  the  whole 
hcMTid  reality  sprang  into  view  b<elbre  her. 

"Oh I  Mrs.  Magoon,  if  I  have  one  wish  above 
aDOtha- ;  one  d^ect  for  which  I  will  toil  nnweary- 
inghr,  one  for  which  I  would  die, — if  by  that  means 
I  ooold  accomplish  it, — it  is  to  annihilate  that  *  Old 
Still-house;'  that  thing  of  all  othos  that  I  hatband 
loathe;  that  rises  np  ever  and  ev^more  b^re  me, 
as  wronging  the  whole  people;  that  calls  corsie  to  mj 
tongue,  and  bitterness  to  my  heart ;  that  has  seared 
and  blighted  exery  bright  prospect  of  my  existence 
and  made  life,  thus  £ir.  cold  and  dead.  Oh !  if  I 
could  cany  a  brand  from  yon  smouldering  houses, 
and  place  it  whoe  it  should  do  its  work,  I  feel  tiiat 
I  should  do  a  Christian  duty ;  and  I  would  do  it  too, 
but  fin-  my  parents.  If  God  is  just,  a  curse  must 
fidl— '^ 

"Ellati,  Elloi!"  replied  £Isie,  hurriedly,  "  it  ha» 
jaSUn;  curse  us  not;  our  lot  is  evoi  now  heavier 
than  we  can  bear." 

The  unearthly  tones  of  her  voice,  the  pale  quiver- 
ing lip,  and  the  de^iair  that  shrivelled  her  fiiie  fiMS, 
and  blanched  her  hair  in  that  terrible  hour,  told  how 
fearfully  the  cinse  had  £dlen  even  <m  the  innoooit  \ 

To  most  posons  it  is  a  torible  thii^  to  die ;  tori- 
ble  to  pass  finom  earth  into  tl^  sfiJiere  bcymid ;  and 
while  the  diill  fingns  of  die  monster  (as  death  Ihb 
been  strangely  called)  are  kcfit  away,  Aey  walk  <mi, 
unterrified  and  nndianged. 

But  it  is  of  &r  more  oonsequenoe  that  josxl  and 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  135 

women  should  live  aright,  than  that  they  should  live. 
It  is  strange  and  sad  that  family,  friends,  and  neigh- 
bors will  look  coldly  on,  for  days,  and  months,  and 
years,  and  see  those  whom  they  love,  treading  the 
path  to  certain  destruction,  and  yet  feel  no  anxiety  or 
fear,  until  the  fatal  goal  is  reached ;  until  the  doom, 
to  which  with  steady  footsteps  they  have  been  tending, 
is  sealed  forever.  Then  the  wildest  fear  seizes  those 
who  have  looked  and  smiled  with  cold  indifference, 
or  perchance  have  thoughtlessly  given  a  helping  hand 
to  aid  the  fall. 

"  Curse  us  not,"  repaeted  Elsie,  "  we  are  already 
accursed.  But  join  with  us — with  me,  to  put  the 
evil  away.  I  have  striven  and  wrestled  for  years, 
yet  who  has  given  me  aid  ?  Who  has  dared  stand 
by  my  side?  Did  I  need  to  see  such  a  scene  as  this, 
to  know  that  such  scenes  must  come?  Ellen,  Ellen, 
by  all  the  friendship  and  love  you  have  ever  given 
me,  let  me  implore  you,  to  arouse  yourself  from  this 
grief  for  the  dead.  Better  a  thousand  times  that  he 
(pointing  to  Tom)  should  lie  tliere,  than  that  he  should 
have  gone  on  for  years,  as  he  has  done  for  the  last." 

"  Oh !  Mrs.  Magoon,"  almost  shrieked  Ellen, 
"  spare  him  now  he  is  gone."  Her  eye-balls  sear  and 
dry,  rolling  wildly  in  their  sockets,  had  warned  Mrs. 
Magoon  to  turn  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  if  even 
with  a  savage  hand. 

A  light  word,  a  soothing  expression,  or  a  common- 
place, would  not  have  done  the  work ;  a  chord  must 
be  touched  that  should  vibrate  through  the  whole 
being,  and  arouse  its  dormant  energies. 


136 


ELSIE    MAG  DON;     OH, 


She  had  accomplished  her  work.  Ellen  fell  upon 
her  shoulder  in  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping,  which 
probably  saved  her  a  brain-fever. 

Delno  at  that  moment  joined  them.  Arrangements 
had  been  made  for  the  removal  of  the  corpses,  and 
Delno  seated  the  still-weeping  girl  by  his  side  in  his 
carriage,  and  drove  away  to  the  desolate  home. 

As  they  parted  at  the  door,  he  whispered : 

"  I  came  here,  Ellen,  hoping  to  do  a  different  work 
from  that  which  must  now  fall  to  my  lot.  No  one, 
as  yet,  not  even  Elsie  Magoon,  suspects  who  I  am. 
Let  us  keep  the  secret  for  the  present.  Will  you 
meet  me  to-morrow  evening,  under  the  old  beech,  by 
tiie  river-side?     I  see  that  our  seat  is  there  still." 

She  assented;  and  they  parted,  as  the  sad  procession 
arrived,  with  the  remains  of  her  brother,  and  her 
exhausted  parents. 

The  day  wore  slowly  and  fearfully  away  to  the 
bereaved  ones.  But  in  Ellen's  heart  a  new  fire  had 
been  kindled,  from  the  smouldering  embers  of  other 
years. 

Dugan  had  saved  the  life  of  her  mother ;  would  not 
that  wipe  from  the  memories  of  her  parents  the  olden 
time, — would  not  the  sin  of  his  boyhood,  mighty  as 
it  had  been,  be  forgotten,  or,  at  least,  forgiven  ? 

They  met  under  the  shades  of  the  familiar  beech ; 
the  summer  moon  was  at  its  full,  and  its  rays,  flick- 
ering through  the  thick  foliage  above,  fell  in  silvery 
fiecks  at  their  feet ;  the  whippoorwill  still  trilled  its 
doleful  song  above;  the  stream  still  rippled  and  mur- 
mured over  the  pebbly  shore,  and  the  little  wavelets 


I 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  137 

danced  and  sparkled,  and  glowed  like  myriads  of 
diamonds,  as  of  old.  All  was  beautiful  and  calm. 
They  met,  but  not  as  in  other  days,  in  the  freshness 
of  early  youth,  with  hearts  bounding  with  joy  and 
gladness;  for,  though  young  in  years,  strange  and 
fearful  were  the  trials  that  had  made  the  hearts  of 
both  old — old  before  their  time. 

He  told  her  how  he  had  struggled  and  conquered  ; 
how  he  had  won  friends  and  wealth.  He  plead  for 
his  old  place  in  her  heart. 

"  Your  parents  are  now  without  a  son ;  let  me,  Ellen, 
replace,  in  part,  the  loved  and  lost.  They  are  old, 
and  I  am  told  your  father  is  in  debt.  In  my  business, 
as  Government  Agent — a  Surveyor  of  Western  land, 
I  have  been  able  to  secure  large  tracts  to  myself.  Let 
me  have  the  privilege  of  making  the  last  days  of  your 
parents  and  sisters  as  comfortable  as  possible.  They 
ought  to  remove  from  here,  where  everything  will 
remind  them  of  their  lost  sons,  /could  not  live  here, 
Ellen;  every  tree  and  shrub  and  plant,  every  field 
and  fence-corner,  cries  out  to  me  of  the  past.  Let  us 
persuade  them  away,  and  then,  if  a  life-time  of  effort 
in  all  that  is  good ;  if  struggle  and  self-denial ;  if 
giving  myself  and  fortune,  to  help  the  poor,  to  encour- 
age the  weak,  and  to  uphold  the  trembling ;  to  break 
the  bands  of  drunkards,  and  to  remove  every  stum- 
bling-block out  of  the  way  of  the  multitude,  that  my 
hands  or  influence  can  reach ;  can  in  any  measure  atone 
for  the  past,  so  help  me  Heaven,  it  shall  be  done." 

"Not  now;  not  now!"  was  the  feeble  response  of 
Ellen. 

12* 


158  ELSIE   JiAOnOy.     OR. 

"Xo,  not  now!  bat  will  not  the  day  come  when  I 
mar  hope?" 

^  bowed  her  head  upon  his  shoulder :  *'  You  t«x>k 
tlie  life  of  mv  brother;  but  you  have  saved  the  life 
of  toy  mother." 

liBt  US  leave  them  to  their  long  talk  of  trust  and  love. 

Hie  fire  was  stayed;  bat  the  dead  were  nevCT 
Ixoa^t  to  life.  The  houses  were  rrf>uilt;  bat  the 
lHt>ken  and  distorted  limhs  were  never  again  made 
whole  and  stoat.  Fortunes  were  mended;  bat  the 
blind  eyes  saw  no  more  light,  and  the  sorrowing 
hearts  never  again  sang  the  songs  of  mirth  and  joy, 
as  in  other  days.  Sweet  Alice  Sumner,  who  will  call 
thy  old  grand-parents  at  mom.  or  waken  the  edioes 
of  youth  fer  th^n  again,  now  that  thy  bird-like  voice 
is  hushed  forever, — who  turn  the  mory  whed  to  earn 
tbor  bread, — who  be  ears  for  their  hearing,  and  eyes 
far  didr  seeing?  Thou  wast  all  in  all  to  than;  bat 
dioa  art  gmie,  nevo-  to  rdmm,  and  thor  gray  hnrs 
will  80(m  lie  low  in  sorrow ! 

Aye^  thoa  wert  all  in  all  to  tbem.  So  joyful  in  thy 
innocence,  so  ample  and  trusting  in  thy  ign<»aDoe  of 
the  world's  YioeSy  so  sdJ^fiacrificii^  in  thy  loves.  No 
WMida'  the  yooi^  dei^  g^^v  his  love  to  dwe,  all  die 
love  his  polhited  heart  was  capable  of  holding,  and 
non  thee  away  to  the  village-dance,  with  vows  and 
promises  of  etenial  fidelity.  He  woold  have  wedded 
thee^  thoa  wert  so  beantiful,  faadst  Aoa  not  gtme 
^art  to  we^  at  his  weakness  and  wi<^edness.  Better 
a  thousandfold,  sweet  Alice,  that  thoa  shooldst  be  the 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  139 

bride  of  death,  than  of  such  a  one  as  he !  His  feet 
were  already  treading  the  paths  of  sin,  and  making 
swift  haste  to  the  gates  of  destruction. 

Another  victim,  maimed  and  wretched,  is  sitting  by 
the  vine-covered  trunk  of  the  blasted  sycamore  that 
once  shaded  the  old  tavern-door.  It  never  leaved 
out  again  after  that  fearful  night;  but  some  kind 
hand  planted  a  wild  creeper  at  its  root,  which  in  a 
year  or  two  covered  its  naked  trunk,  and  hid  away 
its  blackness  and  deforinity;  and  there  he  sits  at  the 
roots  of  the  old  tree,  in  his  arbor  of  vines,  that  trunk 
of  a  man ;  no  legs,  no  eyes.  Since  that  fearful  night, 
God's  sunlight  has  not  been  for  him.  It  is  Tim  Olcott, 
blind  and  helpless,  stretching  forth  his  hand  for  charity 
to  the  passer-by,  singing  his  home-made  ballads,  and 
telling  his  tale  of  other  and  better  days  to  the  village 
boys  as  they  gather  round  him.  He  is  a  temperance 
man  now;  and  many  a  story  he  tells  of  the  terrors 
of  that  "Old  Still-house." 

The  other  wounded  ones  recovered.  The  town  was 
rebuilt ;  and,  as  is  often  the  case,  of  better  materials 
and  with  finer  structures.  "  It  was  a  great  help  to 
it,"  some  said. 

A  firmer  and  truer  temperance  spirit  began  also  to 
pervade  the  community;  and  yet  Elsie  Magoon  was 
not  without  censure,  as  few  are  who  walk  boldly  for- 
ward in  the  way  of  right.  They  may  do  no  great 
deeds  to  call  out  the  world's  plaudits  or  censures,  yet 
they  cover  the  hills  and  valleys  with  their  influence, 
and  waken  sweet  echoes  in  mountain  and  plain,  in 
the  shady  nook,  where  the  wild  flowers  grow,  and  in 


140  ELSIE    MA  GO  OX;     OR, 

the  crowded  village,  where  the  lone  wife  sits  watching 
beside  her  cradle,  for  one  whose  feet  never  seek  the 
cottage-gate  until  the  Aveary  hours  of  absence  have 
wrung  her  heart  with  agony. 

The  thunder-shower  startles  us  into  admiratit.n  and 
wonder ;  we  exult  in  its  grandeur  and  power.  But 
the  dew  falls  upon  the  earth,  the  sunshine  warms,  the 
gentle  showers  refresh  until  the  harvest  is  ready,  and 
the  land  teems  with  its  richness,  and  we  scarce  note 
its  progress  as  the  mighty  work  is  being  wrought. 
Even  so  the  influence  of  Elsie  Magoon  spread  gently 
over  the  country  round,  until,  unconsciously  to  them- 
selves, the  opinions  of  the  people  partially  had 
changed.  Their  bottles  were  retained,  but  were  only 
now  and  then  brought  out.  Whiskey-toddy  was 
seldom  given,  save  to  cheer  some  aged  man  or  woman 
whose  habits  were  supposed  to  be  invulnerable.  And 
every-day  drinking  was  going  out  of  fashion.  But 
the  "Old  Still-House"  still  sent  up  its  dark,  dense 
s^noke  in  the  valley,  and  groaned  and  shrieked  as 
of  old. 

Richard,  after  the  great  fire,  was  a  sober  man  for  a 
time.  But  troubles  came  thick  and  fast.  Debts  ac- 
cumulated, trials  followed,  and  he  became  worj«e  than 
before.  Every  one  in  the  neighborhood  seemed  to 
feel  Elsie's  influence  in  some  form,  except  her  hus- 
band, who  should,  most  of  all,  have  felt  the  power 
of  one  so  patient  and  so  good. 

If  woman's  influence  is  so  potent  as  our  theorizeTs 
declare  it  to  be,  why  is  it  that  we  so  frequently  see 
the  most  gentle  and  beautiful  wives — living  long 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  141 

lives  of  agonizing  endurance ;  bearing  insult,  neglect, 
tyranny,  even  personal  abuse;  and  dying  without 
ever  having  brought  the  husband  to  realize  their 
worthiness,  or  to  yield  one  gross  appetite,  one  whim 
of  fancy,  or  to  control  one  burst  of  passion  for  their 
sakes? 

With  men  of  drunken  and  beastly  habits,  a  wife's 
influence  is  almost  always  nullified  by  the  mean,  base 
fear,  that  they  shall  be  considered  "  as  being  ruled  by 
a  woman." 

To  good  and  true  men,  the  thought  never  comes. 
They  need  no  ruling,  and  the  gentle  influence  of  a 
wife  over  such  a  one,  and  his  over  her,  is  that  of 
mutual  restraint  and  blessing,  giving  higher  life  and 
purer  happiness  to  both.  No  two  human  beings 
were  ever  so  nearly  perfect  as  not  to  require  in  the 
marriage  relation  mutual  concession  and  mutual  for- 
bearance. These  Richard  and  Elsie  had  given  each 
other  in  faith  and  love  for  years  after  their  marriage. 
But  when  the  time  came  that  he  ceased  to  respect  him- 
self,— when  his  own  heart  became,  day  and  night, 
the  bold  accuser, — then  he  grew  irritable,  morose, 
jealous,  repulsive,  abusive.  He  might  still  have 
gained  something,  could  he  have  been  found  sober 
long  enough  to  have  come  to  his  old  standpoint  of 
reason  and  judgment.  But  that  time  now  never 
came.  Every  night  he  retired  excited  with  drink^ 
and  ready  to  become  furious  with  the  least  provoca- 
tion. He  was  never  wholly  imbecile,  never  wholly 
sober.  It  requires  weeks,  even  months,  to  restore 
the  brain  to  a  state  of  perfect  coolness  and  reason  after 


142  ELSIE   MAGOO K;    0 L', 

years  of  constant  indulgence.  Hence  it  is  that  so 
few,  so  very  few,  inebriates  ever  reform. 

It  has  taken  years  to  overturn  wholly  the  throne 
of  reason,  and  it  will  take  years  to  lay  the  foundation 
again,  and  build  it  strong  and  firm  enough  to  stand ; 
it  can  never  be  fully  restored. 

The  neighbors  pitied  Richard  very  much.  "  Poor 
man,  it  was  too  bad  for  his  wife  to  turn  agin  him  so. 
He  'd  'a'  never  drank  so,  if  she  had  n't  a-set  up  to 
pull  down  the  "  Old  Still-House."  So  the  more  he 
drank,  the  more  the  good  souls  pitied  him,  and  con- 
demned her.  It  was  as  great  a  crime  then,  as  now, 
for  a  woman  to  dare  think  for  herself — particularly 
if  she  made  her  thoughts  tell  upon  the  public. 

So,  on,  on,  on,  walked  this  heroic  woman  in  the 
path  of  duty ;  her  family  of  children  looking  up  to 
her  for  all  their  counsel,  support  and  strength.  Few 
knew  how  she  suffered ;  none  knew,  except  Frank 
and  Elsie,  the  extent  of  the  indignities  put  upon  her. 

With  unfaltering  footsteps  she  still  walked  her 
daily  round  of  household  cares,  providing  for  hourly 
wants,  preventing  wastefulness,  teaching  the  younger 
children;  cheering  and  counselling  the  workmen; 
doing  good  everywhere;  watching  and  waiting,  but 
never  fainting  or  failing.  And  much  as  the  town- 
gossip  condemned  what  it  had  no  power  to  compre- 
hend— yet  her  nobleness  had  kept  the  crushing  hand 
of  the  law  from  her  husband's  head  during  all  these 
fearful  years. 

On,  on,  on  she  walked! — head,  hands,  and  heart 
full — and  pouring  out  of  that  fulness  large  draughts 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  143 

for  suffering  humanity.     Yet  every  year  her  prison- 
house  and  chain  became  narrower  and  shorter. 

But,  like  the  prisoner  of  Chillon,  she  walkeil  to  its 
extreme  length,  until  at  last  her  feet  had  worn  deep 
channels  in  the  old  marble  of  habit,  custom,  and  pre- 
judice. Many  a  young  boy  of  the  neighborhood  was 
saved  by  her  power;  and  many  a  mother's  heart  made 
strong  for  home  duty  through  her  counsel. 

Frank,  who,  for  loving  and  reverencing  his  mother, 
became  hated  by  his  father,  had  been  harshly  turned 
from  home  and  his  mother^s  counsel.  He  went  to 
school  and  to  collie,  working  his  way  with  manly 
independence,  and  coming  forth  at  the  end,  strong  and 
well-equipped  for  life's  battle.  He  was  now  working 
his  way  as  an  educated  mechanic  in  a  neighboring  city. 

She  had  done  all  for  Elsie  that  could  be  done,  and 
she  was  now  a  teacher  in  the  Smithville  Academy  — 
an  earner  and  learner  at  the  same  time.  George, 
always  impulsive  and  headstrong,  was  learning  a 
trade ;  while  the  younger  ones  were  being  trained  for 
the  future  under  her  wise  oversight. 

But  the  "  Old  Still-House  "  still  groaned  and  shrieked 
in  the  hollow;  and  its  burning  stream  rolled  on. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

IT  was  a  cold  blustering  March  day — seven  years 
and  more,  after  the  horrible  catastrophe  at  the 
village — that  Elsie  Magoon  the  elder,  and  Elsie  the 
younger,  sat  together  before  a  cheerful  fire,  in  the  old 
house.  If  the  fire  was  cheerful,  it  was  almost  the 
only  thing  that  could  be  called  so  about  the  premises. 
The  whole  farm  was  out  of  repair;  for  Richard  Ma- 
goon had  not  risen  from  his  bed  sober  for  three  years. 
His  active,  energetic,  managing  wife  could  not  set 
things  right,  for  she  was  "only  a  woman,"  and  the 
law  gave  her  no  power  to  manage  or  control  even  her 
own  earnings;  and  yet  as  matters  grew  worse,  through 
his  neglect,  the  weight  increased  on  her  already  over- 
burdened shoulders.  With  unwavering  patience  and 
perseverance,  she  had  managed,  however,  to  keep  the 
children  in  school  a  part  of  the  time,  and  to  teach 
them  herself,  by  diligently  studying  or  reading,  at 
late  hours,  when  others  were  asleep,  that  she  might 
have  some  new  lesson  or  thought  for  the  morrow. 
The  labor  of  her  own  hands  even  was  not  her  own,  to 
spend  or  use  as  she  thought  expedient.  The  butter 
and  cheese  she  made,  went  to  pay  the  hands  that 
labored  about  the  distillery.  A  large  family  of  work- 
men on  the  farm  required  her  constant  toil  in  the 
kitchen.     Richard,  moody  and  cross,  often  abusive, 

(144) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  145 

refused  to  say  anything  to  her  about  his  money- 
matters. 

Frank  had  been  gone  two  years ;  he  wrote  that  he 
was  doing  well, — and  his  mother,  in  her  replies,  gave 
him  good  advice  and  words  of  love,  but  did  not  tell 
him  how  much  she  had  to  encounter.  Elsie  still 
taught,  but  her  salary  was  little  more  than  enough  to 
support  herself.  George  remained  on  the  farm  and 
did  all  he  could, — which  was  mainly  to  keep  things 
together.  There  was  no  advance :  it  was  impossible, 
under  Richard's  misrule. 

So  things  stood  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter. 

The  mother  and  daughter  sat  before  that  cheerful 
fire,  with  tearful  eyes.  Elsie,  the  elder,  was  indus- 
triously patching  her  husband's  coat,  while  the  other 
plied  her  needle  with  busy  fingers  over  some  other 
useful  garment. 

"It's  no  use  to  weep  over  it,  my  child;  it  must  be 
done,  and  perhaps  it's  for  the  best.  Let  us  drop  it 
now,  and  think  of  something  more  cheerful." 

"  I  cannot,  mother.  This  old  home,  that  you  and 
father  have  toiled  upon  so  long,  to  be  put  under  the 
Sheriff's  hammer, — and  for  such  a  debt!" 

"If  it  cannot  be  helped,  my  dear,  is  it  not  better 
wisdom  to  submit?  A  thing  that  can  be  helped, 
should  never  be  patiently  borne,  although  it  cost  trial 
and  struggle,  and  even  antagonism ;  but  I  see  no  help 
for  this.  Mr.  Porter  has  waited  a  great  many  years : 
it  is  now  twenty-five  since  your  father  borrowed  that 
money." 

"Which  should  have  been  yovra"  said  the  young 
13 


146  ELSIE   MAGiyOX;    OR. 

girl,  with  indignation.  "Mother,  the  law  is  a  bar- 
barism —  it  is  montibvus  to  give  a  man  all  the  property 
of  his  wife,  all  her  labor,  all  her  mind  and  souL" 

"  Women  most  be  careful  how  thev  marry,  then," 
said  her  mother  in  reply. 

"Qucefiil  bow  they  marry?  rather  they  must  not 
marry  at  all,  mother.  How  can  any  woman  know 
who  or  what  she  is  marrying  ?  Could  any  foresight 
OT  any  care  have  told  you  that  our  once  noble  &ther 
would  have  ever  been  what  he  is  now  ?  Oh !  with 
what  pride  and  love  I  remember  him,  as  I  used  to  fly 
to  him,  ten  years  ago, — when  he  wound  his  arm  round 
me,  and  lifted  me  up  for  a  kiss — great  girl,  as  I  wa-. 
He  was  so  noble,  so  good,  so  sensible,  so  loving !  And 
see  what  he  is  now — " 

"  £lsi^  my  child,  he  is  ytmrfafftar  still." 

"  I  know  it,  mother ;  but  my  heart  must  poor  out 
its  fulness  now,  this  once,  if  never  more.  Next 
week,  our  home  is  to  be  sold;  and  you,  what  will 
become  of  you  and  all  of  us  ?  You  have  toiled  here 
for  twoity-five  years ;  and  W0%  the  butter  and  cheese, 
^e  wooUoi  and  linens  you  have  made,  piled  up  before 
you,  they  would  pay  for  the  &rm.  You  have  edu- 
cated us  all ;  yon  have  washed  and  cooked,  carded  and 
spun ;  yon  have  dried  the  firuit,  made  the  garden  and 
become  the  mark^-woman ;  anytiiing,  everything, 
that  we  might  be  clothed,  and  have  books,  and  be 
iHOOght  up  respectably ;  yon  have  never  made  a  bad 
bargain ;  have  never  been  drunk ;  never  neglected  a 
doty :  all  that  human  hands,  human  ingenuity,  and 
human  patience  were  permitted  to  do  under  the  law. 


*• 


THE   OLD    STILL-HOV&E.  14?' 

you  have  done.  And  now,  what  have  yoU  to  show 
for  it?  Without  a  word  or  explanation,  this  terrible 
effect  comes  upon  you,  from  causes  which  you  have 
struggled,  day  and  night,  to  avert!  I  ask  a^in, 
what  have  you  to  show  for  all  your  labor  and  self- 
sacrifice — what  individual  right  do  you  possess?" 

"  /  have  my  children,  Elsie,  and  I  hope  and  trust 
that  I  have  built  a  home,  and  stored  up  wealth  in  their 
hearts,  that  the  Sheriff  will  not  be  able  "to  put  an 
attachment  upon.  If  I  am  bankrupt  there,  my  child, 
I  shall  be  poor  indeed.  I  know  the  law  is  unjust; 
I  know  that  women  hold,  under  it,  an  inferior  and 
degraded  position.  "Could  I,"  said  she,  speaking 
with  fervor,  "be  permitted  to  keep  the  farm,  and 
manage  it  myself,  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  could  in  a 
few  years  pay  all  the  debt.  I  love  the  old  place, — 
every  shrub,  plant,  and  tfee  is  a  part  ol  myself,  —  it 
is  interwoven  with  my  life,  with  all  that  is  dear,  and 
all  that  is  sad  and  sorrowful,  too;  —  I  do  not  love  to 
see  it  go ;  but  it  must." 

"  It  must  not,  it  shall  not,  mother ;  there  must  he 
some  way  ;  I  will  move  heaven  and  earth,  but  I  will 
save  it  for  you." 

"Elsie,"  said  her  mother,  with  deep  emphasis, 
laying  down  her  work,  and  looking  directly  into  the 
face  of  her  child, — "are  you  strong?  able  to  endure 
patiently  —  to  take  up  a  cross  and  walk  under  it  for 
years,  for  the  sake  of  a  great  good  ?  For  the  sake  of 
redeeming  your  father,  would  you  be  willing  to  toil 
as  I  have  done,  —  if  you  could  put  out  the  fire  under 
that  boiler,  and  still  the  shriek  of  that  engine,  which 


# 


148  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

has  since  your  childhood  haunted  me  like  the  cry  of 

damned — " 

"  Yes,  mother/'  said  Elsie,  returning  the  steady  - 
gaze  without  flinching.  "  Keady  to  toil,  and  endure; 
to  saorifiee  ease,  self-enjoyment,  everything  but  virtue 
and  truth,  if  I  could  but  accomplish  what  you  sug- 
gest, to^aavc  my  father.  Oh!  mother,  if  I  could  do 
that,  wo  should  all  be  saved!  —  And  mother,  I  have 
a  plan  to  save  the  home ;  I  will  tell  you  mine,  and 
then  I  will  hear  yours.  ,  You  know  Mr.  Delno  and 
Ellen  came  last  night,  'When  they  were  here  last, 
Ellen  told  me  about  A  being  Mike  Dugan,  and  how 
much  you  did  to  help  nim  out  of  jail.  He  is  so  rich 
now,  and  so  noble,  I  thought  I  would  go  to  him ; — I 
am  of  age,  you  know,  and  if  a  wife  cannot  own  prop- 
erty, a  woman  can ;  and  I  can  be  a  woman  and  no 
wife  a  Ibng  time,  if  I  choose;  —  I  am  almost  sure  he 
will  loaii  nie  money,  and  buy  the  place  for  me,  and 
then  we  can  see  what  we  can  do.  George  is  not  of 
age,  bl^lie  will  sti^d  fej^B^tt  every  emergency.  I 
will  give  up  my  scliool,  come  ^ome  and  live  with 
you,  aid  you,  and  do  all  I  can ;  and  I  fancy  I  can  do 
moi«  than  you  think.  With  sueh  an  end  to  be  at- 
tained, I  feel  equal  to  any  eiSbrt. 

"  You  are  a  brave,  blessed  child,  Elsie  !  and  your 
plan  is  what  I  had  in  my  own  mind.     I  wrote  to 
Frank,  and  had  hoped  he  would  be  here,  but  it  is  too 
late  now ;  and  I  was  almost  in  despair,  when  Ili^d* 
last  night  that  Mr.  Delno  had  come ;  but  still  I  di(^ 
not  know  just  how  to  manage.    .The  farm  must  b« 
ours,  not  his,  or  father  will  not  y^ld.     George^ust 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  149 

be  brought  into  all  our  plans,  I  think, — and  then  Ave 
must  hold  your  father  to  it.  Together,  I  feel  that 
we  can  accomplish  this  work,  formidable  as  it  seems. 
Elsie,  your  father  mvM  he  redeemed;  he  must  not,  shall 
not  die  a  drunkard." 

And  the  strong-hearted  woman  bent  her  head  upon 
her  daughter's  shoulder;  the  silvery  hair — silvered 
over  in  that  one  night  of  horror — hung  in  shining 
folds  beside  her  pale  cheeks;  her  attenuated  hands 
were  clasped  convulsively  together.  She  felt  that  she 
had  found  a  brave  young  heart,  that  would  lov- 
ingly share  the  weight  of  that  burden  which  had  so 
long  pressed  upon  her  own. 

George  was  called  in,  and  agreed  to  put  himself 
under  their  guidance,  if  the  farm  could  be  saved. 

Elsie,  the  younger,  then  sought  her  friends.  Mr. 
Delno  readily  agreed  to  bid  off  the  farm,  make  over 
the  deed  to  her,  and  to  wait  any  length  of  time  for 
his  money.  He  was  only  too  happy  to  have  it  in 
his  power  to  return  many  unforgotten  obligations. 

Old  Porter  had  intended  to  bid  off  the  farm, — 
there  was  no  one  else  heartless  enough  to  do  it.  But 
as  almost  every  neighbor  was  a  creditor  to  some 
small  amount,  and  none  were  friendly  to  him,  they 
had  determine<l  to  make  him  pay  well  for  it. 

The  news  of  the  coming  sale  had  spread  far  and 
wide,  and  the  bids  ran  higher  than  old  Mr.  Porter 
had  anticipated.  Mr.  Delno  was  in  the  group,  and 
when  the  right  time  came,  his  v^l(||<yas  heard.  No 
one  going  beyond  him,  the  fa^^as  declared  his, 
and  the  crowd  gradually  passed  awa^^complimea^ing 

13* 


150  ELSIE   MAGOOK;    OB, 

him  on  the  possession  of  the  best  place  in  the  valley, 
n  it  should  be  put  in  good  repair. 
r.  Magoon  was  not  as  much  under  the  influence  ^ 
liquor  as  usual.     He  could  always  abstain  for  a  day 
or  two,  under  any  urgent  motive,  and  then  the  inherent 
hospitality  and  gentleness  of  his  nature  returned. 

Mr.'Delno  wished  to  close  up  the  business  at  once, 
as  he  had  little  time  to  spare,  and  they  all  repaired 
to  the  Justice's  office,  to  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments.    The  money  was  promptly  paid  down,   all 
legal  dkims  met,  and  in  a  few  days  the  deed  made 
out.     But  i^liat  was  the  astonishment  of   Richard 
when  he  found  the  name  of  his  daughter  on  the  deed, 
instead  of  that  of  tKe  purchaser.     There  was  a  long 
talk,  which  ended  with  no  very  kind  feelings  between 
'tlie  father  and  daughter.     But  she  was*firm. 
/""  Father,   I   have  not  taken   this    responsibility 
alone.     If  it  had  been  possible  for  mother  to  hold  it 
under  the  law,  I  should  not  have  been   obliged  to 
stand  in  her  place.     But  why  may  I  not  save   my 
father  from  ruin,  as  well  as  Frank,  or  George.     The 
farm  is  now  mine — as  much  mine  as  it  has  ever  been 
yours ;  for  you  have  never  paid  the  principal  of  the 
purchase-money.     If   after   years  it  has  to  be  sold 
from  under  my  hand,  as  it  has  been  from  yours,  be 
it  so ;  but  we  shall  see.'^ 

It  was  early  spring — the  roads  bad,  and  streams 
high — and  Frank  did  not  receive  his  mother's  letter 
in  time  to  get  home  to  the  sale,  or  he  would  have 
done  what  Elsie  had  done, — borrowed  the  money, 
and^aved.the  hi/me. 


^^ 


THE    OLD    STILL- no  USE.  151 

But  it  was  better  as  it  was ;  for  he  was  settlecl  in 
the  city,  and  he  felt  that  she  could  do  better  at  the 
farm  than  he.  And  as  the  busy  days  of  April  came 
upon  them,  she  took  possession  as  gently,  and  with 
as  little  demonstration,  as  if  her  father  were  still  sole 
proprietor. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  as  he  rose  from  the  breakfast- 
table,  one  morning,  "  I  wish  to  talk  with  you  a  few 
moments." 

"  You  are  aware,  father,  that  I  am,  with  the  judi- 
cious help  of  mother,  to  carry  on  the  farm ;  we  feel 
that  the  '  Still-house '  has  been  the  sole  cause  of  all 
our  misfortunes  —  of  misfortune  to  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood. To-day,  I  shall  dismiss  the  hands,  and 
put  a  stop  to  the  making  of  ardent  spirits ;  and  the 
sound  of  that  engine  shall  never  more  be  heard  in  the 
valley." 

"  You  will  put  a  stop  to  the  only  money-making 
thing  on  the  premises,"  said  he;  "whiskey  never 
brought  so  good  a  price  as  now." 

"That  may  be — whiskey  may  bring  money;  but 
look  over  the  farm  and  see  what  it  Jms  brought  with  it, 
or  rather  what  it  has  compelled  you  to  lose.  If 
whiskey  is  so  profitable,  why  am- 1  the  legal  owner 
of  all  you  have  toiled  for  so  long? — No,  father,  not 
another  drop  shall  ever  be  made  on  the  place."    ^ 

"  What  will  you  do  with  the  fixtures  ?  Tljg^are 
worth  thousands  of  dollars,  as  much  as  the##hole 
farm  would  sell  for,  without  them."  <dp^ 

•  " Let  them  rot  where  they  are"  said  she,  resolutely. 
"Aye,  fall  to  staves,  ev^ry  hogshead,  barrel,  and  tuo, 


\ 


152     '  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON. 

if  there  is  no  other  way  to  dispose  of  them.  But 
not  another  drop  of  the  accursed  beverage  shall  be 
manufactured  with  them." 

Mr.  Magoon  was  vexed,  and  said  many  unkind 
words.  But  it  was  useless.  There  was  no  yielding 
in  the  resolute  girl,  who  had  taken  all  into  her  hands. 

Frank  gave  her  the  assurance  of  help,  and  all 
pledged  themselves  to  aid  as  occasion  required. 

Had  she,  in  a  rash  impulse,  plunged  into  a  stream, 
braved  a  fire,  or  confronted  a  wild  beast,  to  save  her 
parents  from  ruin,  the  world  would  have  declared  her 
a  heroine.  But  she  had  undertaken  a  mightier  task 
— to  bring  harmony  out  of  discord ;  beauty  from 
deformity ;  and  to  let  happiness  and  comfort  in  upon 
a  household  where  misery  and  misrule  had  for  years 
held  almost  undisputed  sway.  To  do  this,  she  must 
sacrifice  the  heyday  of  her  girlhood  to  hard  toil  and 
earnest  thought.  She  must  appear  to  many  of  her 
neighbors  as  an  unwomanly  creature,  endeavoring  to 
rule  and  govern  her  father,  and  as  wanting  true 
sensibility  and  refinement. 

Strange,  how  little  it  takes  to  make  a  hei-oine! 
How  much  of  self-poise,  and  earnestness,  and  truth, 
to  make  only  an  "eccentric  character!" — or,  as  the 
world  says,  a  "  masculine  woman." 


4t 


CHAPTER    XV. 

IT  did  not  cost  a  great  effort  to  put  an  end  to  the 
operations  of  {he  "Old  Still-House;"  for  a  cold 
spring,  a  hot,  dry  summer,  early  frosts,  and  a  long, 
tedious  winter,  had  reduced  the  usual  amount  of  corn 
all  over  the  country,  and  made  the  demand  for  it  at 
the  South  so  great,  as  to  induce  many  young  men  to 
engage  in  the  Southern  trade.  Large  quantities  were 
sent  down  the  Ohio  in  flat-boats;  what  remained  was 
readily  sold.  The  mill  still  did  its  work  for  the 
farmers  around;  but  it  was  almost  worn  out,  and 
ready  to  lie  still  with  the  rest. 

All  sorts  of  gossip  was  in  circulation  about  Elsie 
Magoon ;  but  the  common  opinion  was,  that  the  bar- 
gain was  all  a  sham,  to  keep  the  property  out  of  the 
hands  of  old  Porter;  nobody  loved  him,  and  nobody 
cared;  for,  through  Elsie,  many  were  getting  their 
pay.  The  feeling  towards  her  and  her  father,  may  be 
drawn  from  the  following  conversation  at  Mrs.  Hill's 
quilting : 

"Lor's  help  us,"  said  Mrs.  Hunt  to  the  ladies 
around  the  quilt,  "  why  did  n't  Frank  take  it,  if  any- 
body, and  not  put  such  a  scandalization  upon  liis 
sister  ?  It 's  mighty  unbecoming  in  her,  to  be  sure, 
to  be  going  round  about,  and  doing  business  after  the 
Still.    She  does  just  for  all  the  world  like  men-folks." 

(168) 


154  ELSIE    MA  GO  ON;    OR, 

"I  reckon  she'll  be  a-turning  out  one  of  them  there 
'Women's  Rights'  that  we  hear  tell  on,  one  of  these 
days,"  replied  Miss  Ferri4;  "one  of  them  that  wants 

to  rule." 

"Shouldn't  much  wonder/'  continued  Mrs.  Hunt; 
"Elsie  is  all-fired  smart;  I  know  that,  and  she  knows 
it,  too.  But  I  reckon,  'gin  she  gits  through  with  that 
scrape  of  stopping  the  'Old  Still,' she '11  be  tired  a- 
warin'  the  breeches.  Old  Richard  Magoon  is  a  hard 
old  customer,  and  he 's  a-getting  worse  and  worse." 

"You  don't  say!"  broke  in  Mrs.  Phillips,  a  very 
quiet,  orderly  lady,  who  was  always  astonished  at 
anything  new.     "  I  thought  he  'd  quit  drinking." 

"Good  gracious !  our  Dan,  who  Miss  Elsie  had  up 
there  ploughing  for  the  corn,  says  he 's  been  ridiculous 
every  day  since  he  has  been  up  there." 

"He  used  to  be  a  mighty  clever  man,  when  I  first 
knew  him,"  said  Mrs.  Hunt;  "but  I  raly  believe  the 
nicer  and  decenter  and  smarter  a  man  is,  when  he  is 
sober,  the  worse  he  is  when  he  is  drunk." 

"  You  don't  say ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Phillips. — "  Marie 
Jane,  will  you  hand  me  the  thread?" 

"Yes;  I  believe  it.  Just  think  of  him — after  he 
has  let  everything  go  to  ruin  as  he  has,  tearin'  round 
like  mad,  and  calling  his  wife  and  Elsie  all  sorts  of 
hard  names,  'cause  they  're  trying  to  fix  up  things ! 
Why,  our  Dan  says  he  swears  worse  than  old  Street ; 
and  he  was  hard  to  beat,  I  tell  you ! " 

"Old  Street?  Who  was  he?"  asked  Miss  Marie 
Jane. 

"La!  dew  tell!     Never  heard  of  old  Street?    I 


TEE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  155 

thought  everybody  knowed  him.  He  was  a  queer  old 
sneevus,  that  used  to  go  round  about,  up  and  down 
the  country,  all  tatter  and  rags — kind  a-half  crazy  — 
and  always  begging  whiskey.  He  was  a  cute  old  soul 
— never  forgot  anything  he  ever  knowed — and  when 
he  was  a  mind,  could  talk  like  a  book.  They  say  he 
went  to  college,  way  down  in  Old  Virginny  —  Prince 
Williams,  or  something  like  that — and  was  counted 
awful  smart;  and  just  as  he  was  a-gettin'  through, 
some  gal  he  was  in  love  with,  turned  round  and  got 
married  to  some  other  feller,  and  so  he  went  kinder 
beside  hisself,  and  took  to  drink ;  and  never  was  any- 
thing but  a  pest  afterward." 

"  Dear  me !  how  romantic ! "  said  Miss  Marie  Jane, 
with  a  lisp. 

"  I  guess  you  would  have  thought  it  was  morantic, 
if  you  'd  a-seen  him,  sometimes.  The  women  were 
as  feared  as  death  of  him.  Oh!  you  never  hear'n  no 
critter  swear  so  as  he  would,  when  he  got  mad,  in  all 
your  born  days;  and  he'd  always  get  mad  if  they 
didn't  give  him  whiskey;  and  if  they  did,  there  was 
no  telling  what  he  'd  do.  Did  you  never  hear  about 
Mrs.  Brant's  giving  him  a  whippin'?" 

"No;  you  don't  say?"  said  Mrs.  Phillips  again, 
with  a  giggle.    She  always  laughed  when  she  spoke. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Col.  Brant  had  a  grand  party,  one 
day,  and  had  all  the  respectable  ladies  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. There  was  me  and  Miss  Magoon,  and  Miss 
Ferril,  and  Miss  Scott,  and  Miss  Bill  Lake,  and  Miss 
Tom  Lake,  and  Miss  Uriah  Lake,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  Lakes,  and  everybody — a  hull  room  full — and 


16S  ELSIE   MAG  O  OX;    OB, 

m  w«s  all  sittin'  a-talking:  and  who  should  \ralk 
right  up  to  the  door  biit  old  Street ! 

***Betsi^*  said  he,  (that  w:is  Mrs.  Col.  Brant,  you 
know,) — *Bdtsie,'  said  he,  -give  me  some  whiskey;' 
and  he  puckerted  up  his  lip?,  and  squinted  his  little 
black  qpes,  as  if  he  was  plotting  some  mischief.  He 
iras  a  tentibk  mischief  Street  was,  always. 

"'Ifo!'  said  sh^  *I  sha'n't/  said  she;  'you  must 
jast  go  away  with  yo«rself. — March !  ^ 

"*Wdl,* said  he,  *I  will,  if  you  will  give  me  ^Hooe 
whiskey.  JnsI  a  little,  B^ie ;  I  am  so  Ay.  Kow, 
if  yoa  will.  111  go  to  the  cunchard  and  being  up  stone 
sweet  'nns  for  tii^e  prrtfy  ladies.' ' 

"'No^  Street!' said  she.  (Mrs,  Brant  was  a  mighty 
restate  peoe  when  she  set  out.)  'Yon  don't  need  a 
dmp,  and  yon  must  go  away  from  here.' 

''And  then  yon  ought  'a'  heard  him  swear !  Oh, 
my  goodness !  I  never  did  hear  the  like.  And  ihae 
we  was  aU  a-sdctin* ! — :^  Mrs.  Rran^  she  got  up  and 
shut  the  doKff- — and  the  first  we  see,  he  was  o(«uji^  in 
the  winder,  head  foremost,  with  no  shiit  on  hk  back; 
and  we  aD  set  to  screaming  for  he  was  awful  mad. 
And  Mrs.  Brant,  she  never  said  a  weed,  but  jusi 
sUi^^ed  to  the  cupboard  and  tof^  down  the  coltHMFs 
raw-hide,  and  she  gave  him  three  cots  over  his  bare 
shonldeis^  that  made  him  back  out  quiver,  l^ie  did 
not  know  but  he'd  kill  her  fiv  it;  Iwit  he  onty  looked 
up, — 'There,  there!  Betsie,'  said  he^  jost  like  a  geiH 
tleman;  'IH  get  out— don't  strike  i^ain— Fll  get 
out!'  And  out  he  go^  and  talked  <^  tiie  biood 
almo^  startuD^  out  of  die  great  welts  acroGB  his  diool- 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  157 

dcrs;  and  he  never  troubled  her  arterwards.  Years 
arter,  when  he  used  to  come  back,  he  used  to  say  to 
her,  —  'You  did  right,  Betsie:  you  did  right;  but  you 
struck  a  leetle  too  hard.'  Poor  old  critter!  I  'spect 
he 's  dead  now.  He  used  to  come  round  once  in  six 
months,  or  a  year,  for  nigh  twenty  years,  when  the 
country  was  new.  He  was  mighty  lamed,  and  could 
figure  up  anything  uncommon;  and  talk  Latin  and 
Greek,  and  had  all  the  histories,  ever  since  Christ 
down,  at  his  tongue's  end;  and  he  knew  all  the 
ministers  and  lawyers,  and  so  the  people  used  to  let 
him  stay  to  hear  him  talk,  poor  old  soul ;  but  I  guess 
he 's  deEid  now ! "  And  the  good  old  lady  stopped, 
out  of  breath. 

"  It 's  my  opinion,"  said  grandmother  Lake,  "  that 
if  more  of  'em  had  the  cow-hide  taken  on  'em  when 
they  are  in  their  mad  fits,  it  would  be  better  for  'era ! " 
and  the  old  lady  bit  off  the  end  of  her  thread  spite- 
fully. 

"  To  be  sure  it  would,"  said  Miss  Ferril. 

"  I  tell  you,  if  I  had  a  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Styles, 
"  that  knew  as  much  as  Magoon,  and  could  be  as  smart 
and  gentlemanly  when  he  was  a  mind  to,  and  then 
cut  up  as  he  does  sometimes,  would  n't  I? — woufd  n't 
I?" — and  she  gritted  her  teeth,  and  tried  to  look 
daggere.  It  was  evident  she  had  a  husband  who 
sometimes  provoked  her. 

"  They  say  he  treats  the  women  folks  arful,"  said 
grandmother  Lake. 

"I  do  expect  he  does,  from  what  I  can  hear, 
'specially  since  the  Still-house  has  stopped;  and 
14 


158  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

our  Dan  says,  Elsie  won't  allow  a  bit  of  whiskey  on 
the  premises,  only  what  he  gets  on  the  sly.  They  do 
say  that  she  let  out  barrels  and  barrels  in  the  Old 
Still ;  and  he  has  to  buy  every  drop  he  gets  now. 
She  says  there  sha'n't  one  mite  go  into  the  field  this 
year ;  if  the  corn  can't  be  planted  without,  it  must 
go  unplanted." 

"Good  for  her!"  shouted  Miss  Ferril ;  and  in  the 
attempt  to  clap  her  hands,  she  ran  her  needle  into 
her  finger. 

And  so  ended  the  chat  over  the  quilt ;  and  such 
was  the  gossip  of  the  town.  As  Mrs.  Hunt  said, 
Richard  grew  worse  rather  than  better.  He  felt 
himself  broken  down  and  worthless ;  the  very  force 
that  was  arrayed  to  save  him,  drove  him  to  madness. 
As  had  been  said  at  the  quilting,  no  whiskey  was 
allowed  on  the  premises;  and  hands  enough  were 
found  who  would  work  without  it.  Indeed,  temper- 
ance societies  were  becoming  popular;  many  young 
men  joined,  who  were  ready  to  work  without  stimu- 
lants. 

The  farm  had  been  put  in  better  order;  fences 
repaired  and  built.  And  now  that  the  laborers  were 
not  called  off  to  take  care  of  the  distillery  and  its 
surroundings,  everything  went  on  nicely. 

The  fields  were  planted  in  due  season,  and  the 
crops  seemed  likely  to  be  abundant.  Except  the 
conduct  of  Richard,  there  was  a  manifest  improve- 
ment everywhere. 

Mrs.  ]Magoon  and  her  daughter  had  just  finished 
folding  the  clothes  after  a  large  washing,  one  Monday 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  159 

eve,  when  one  of  the  little  Truman  girls  ran  in, 
crying  bitterly,  and  said,  —  "  Mammy  is  dying,  and 
Mary  wants  you  to  come  right  over,  quick." 

The  two  women  put  aside  their  work  hastily,  gave 
directions  to  Alice  about  the  morning  duties,  if  they 
should  not  return,  and  hurried  away. 

They  found  Mrs.  Truman,  who  had  been  ill  a  few 
days,  breathing  her  last.  She  was  not  old,  not  over 
fifty-five,  and  that  should  be  life's  meridian,  and  yet 
her  face  and  form  would  have  proclaimed  her  "  three- 
score and  ten."  Her  eyes  were  heavy  and  dim,  care 
and  toil  and  weeping  had  driven  them  back  under 
her  furrowed  brow,  and  bleared  them  with  sorrow; 
till  she  was  old,  oh !  how  old,  and  worn  and  weary  I 

And  what  a  life  she  had  lived !  The  early  years 
of  it  had  been  spent  by  the  side  of  one  who,  when  he 
married  her  at  fifteen,  was  good  and  industrious,  and 
meant  to  do  all  he  promised.  She  was  a  pretty  girl 
then,  with  a  heart  full  to  the  brim  of  tenderness  and 
unselfishness.  But  she  had  grown,  in  the  course  of 
these  toiling,  suffering  years,  hard  and  petulant, 
and  vixenish,  often  almost  matching  him  in  violence 
and  abuse. 

Yet,  after  all,  she  had  been  as  good  a  mother  as 
one  plunged  in  her  very  childhood  into  matronly 
cares  and  duties,  from  which  there  was  no  escape  or 
rest,  not  even  long  enough  to  learn  to  accomplish 
them  aright — could  well  be.  And  what  had  she  to 
encourage,  or  lift  for  an  hour  of  her  long,  wearisome 
pilgrimage,  the  burden  of  her  destiny?  Truman, 
kind-hearted  and  jovial  when  sober,  silly  and  fawn- 


160  ELSIE    MAG  O  OX;     OR, 

ing  when  half  sober,  and  a  ver%-  demon  when  fully 
drunk,  had  made  life  to  her  a  fearful  thing  for  thirty 
long  years.  She  never  went  from  home ;  but  washed 
and  ironed,  and  spun  and  wove.  Day  and  night, 
year  in  and  out,  was  heard  the  click  of  her  loom,  or 
the  buzz  of  her  spinning-wheel ;  and  as  an  accompani- 
ment, the  clack  and  running  of  her  tongue.  She  had 
scolded  in  the  b^inning,  because  she  thought  scold- 
ing would  mend  matters.  Because  a  troop  of  chil- 
dren, full  of  life  and  mischief,  who  had  nothing  to 
do,  and  nothing  to  do  it  with,  were  always  doing  the 
very  things  they  should  not ;  and  because  she  had  no 
time  to  reason  with  them,  and  did  not  know  how  to 
do  it,  if  she  had, — she  strove  to  govern  by  screams 
and  threats. 

She  loved  her  children,  toiled  for  them,  saved  for 
them,  denied  herself  everj'thing  for  them.  And  her 
husband,  "  Drunken  old  Truman,"  as  all  the  neigh- 
borhood called  him,  always  had  a  clean,  whole  suit 
for  Sundays,  no  matter  how  poor  and  old  it  might 
be ;  and  if  she  scolded  some  to  get  it  on,  it  was  love 
that  stirred  her  tongue,  pride,  and  a  lingering  hope, 
that  stru^led  against  all  hope,  that  she  could  still 
make  the  husband  of  her  youth,  and  the  father  of 
her  children,  a  little  bit  respectable. 

And  those  twelve  children,  that  for  these  many 
years  have  hung  upon  her,  while  she  struggled,  and 
toiled,  and  wept,  and  scolded,  and  suffered, — those 
twelve  children  —  the  drunkard's  children  —  every 
one  of  them  bore,  in  some  form,  the  brand  of  the 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  IGl 

father's  siiis  —  every  one,  more  or  less,  the  impress  of 
the  mother's  trials  and  sorrows. 

Oh,  ye  men  of  our  nation  !  who  measure  your  duties 
to  humanity  by  codes,  "constitutions,"  who  dare  not 
prohibit  the  use  of  ardent  spirits  by  law,  lest  you  take 
away  some  man's  liberty  to  make  a  beast  of  himself; 
have  you  ever  paused  to  think  what  opportunities 
you  give  him  to  destroy  the  liberty  and  peace  of 
others  f  to  entail  upon  offspring,  one  by  one,  unnatural 
appetites,  debased  habits,  polluted  tastes,  and  diseased 
conditions?  The  power  you  give  to  man  to  crush  out 
the  life  of  the  wife  whom  he  has  sworn  to  "love, 
honor,  and  protect,"  by  long  years  of  torture,  or  the 
quick  frenzy  of  an  hour?  To  compel  her  to  ex- 
hausting toil,  not  only  in  her  own  support,  but  to 
make  amends  for  his  unfaithfulness  in  the  support  and 
protection  of  their  children,  and,  worse  than  all,  to 
become  the  mother  of  those  who  must  both  inherit 
and  perpetuate  the  curse  which  has  blighted  their  life? 
Can  the  wife  and  mother,  whose  spirit  is  broken,  by 
seeing  her  youthful  hopes  prostrate  before  her,  who 
with  every  passing  hour  feels  the  burden  of  another's 
sin, — whose  very  soul  is  steeped  in  despair, — can  she 
give  birth  to  beings  liarmonious  and  beautiful  ?  No 
matter  how  noble  her  own  spirit, — no  matter  how 
amiable  and  gentle,  how  pure  and  true  she  may  have 
been, —  if  her  husband  is  a  drunkard,  the  "trail  of  the 
serpent  is  over  them  all."  And  the  truer  and  higher 
her  nature,  the  more  fearful  will  be  its  antagonism 
with  that  curse,  that  is  pressing  the  iron  deeper  and 
14*  —- 


102  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     Oli, 

deeper  into  her  soul,  blighting  those  dearer  to  her 
than  her  own  life. 

Ah!  if  the  woes  of  intemperance  fell  only  upon  the 
guilty,  we  might  be  patient  and  logical  over  thein ; 
but  alas !  who  can  measure  their  height  and  depth, 
their  length  and  breadth  ? 

But  now  the  mother  of  these  twelve  children  lay 
dying. 

As. Mrs.  Magoon  drew  near  the  bed,  the  sufferer 
looked  up;  a  ghastly  smile  of  recognition  flitted  over 
her  face ;  then  her  eye  ran  around  the  circle,  as  if  in 
search  of  some  one  not  there,  and  she  asked  in  a  husky 
voice,  "Where  is  he?" 

"  He  is  gone  out,  mother,"  said  Martha,  the  eldest, 
who  lay  weeping  on  the  pillow,  holding  the  damp, 
death-cold  hand  in  hers. 

"  Yes,  gone  out ! "  and  then  a  low  deep  groan 
burst  from  the  panting  breast;  "gone  out  —  yes,  I 
know — gone  for  a  dram.  Bring  him  in  once  more, 
oh!  Reuben,  once  more  before  I  die!  Let  me  see 
him.". 

This  was  said  to  her  son,  a  young  man,  who  stood 
before  her  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  went  out,  and 
soon  led  in  his  father,  too  drunk  to  walk  steadily, 
and  seated  him  beside  the  bed.  He  took  her  hand 
in  his,  and  seemed  to  realize  partially  the  scene  before 
him. 

"  Don't  go  to  dying  now,  Nancy,"  said  he.  "  You 
mus'n't;  I  can't  stand  it.  Come!  cheer  up,  old 
woman,  and  I  '11  try  and  do  better ;  I  will ;  I  swear 
I  will!" 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  1G3 

"Oh,  father!  don't,  don't!"  almost  shrieked  poor 
Martha,  at  the  coarse  words  and  tones  so  at  variance 
with  the  occasion ;  while  little  Jane  buried  her  face 
in  the  bed-clothes,  and  smothered  her  sobs  as  best  she 
could. 

"  Truman,"  said  the  dying  mother,  as  her  breath 
came  labored  and  long,  "I  must  die;  won't  you  prom- 
ise me  now,  before  Mistress  Magoon  and  Elsie,  that 
you  won't  drink  when  I  am  gone?  Promise  me;  do 
promise  me ! " 

He  did  not  answer ;  and  she  lay  silent,  and  with 
her  eyes  partly  closed,  for  a  few  moments,  his  hands 
clasped  in  hers.  With  a  great  effort,  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  him;  he  was  fast  asleep — nodding  stupidly, 
and  almost  ready  to  fall  upon  her. 

"  Take  him  away,  Reuben,"  whispered  Elsie ;  but 
the  words,  though  low,  had  caught  the  ears  of  the 
dying  wife. 

"  No,  no,  no ! "  said  she,  with  strange,  deep  earnest- 
ness, "  let  him  stay ;  I  loved  him  once — yes,  once, 
once !  I  love  him  still.  But  it 's  whiskey,  Elsie,  you 
know — yes, you  know;  it's  whiskey,  Martha — Reu- 
ben. Take  care  of  him  when  I  am  gone."  She  was 
silent  a  moment  from  exhaustion,  and  then  a  strange 
smile  flitted  over  her  face ;  her  eye  brightened,  and 
her  voice  seemed  stronger. 

"  I  loved  him  once ;  he  was  so  handsome  and  good, 
and  he  loved  me,  too;  I  was  happy — once — once! 
Wait,  mother,  I  am  coming — he  will  come  directly; 
/  loved  him  so!  Mary  —  Reuben  —  Alice — Jane — 
where  are  you  all  gone?   Who  put  out  the  light?  it's 


164  ELSIE  MA  GOO  N ;     0  R, 

cold  liere.  Mrs,  Magoon,  go  to  the  fire  —  I  loved  him 
once;  the  birds  sang  and  tlie  sun  shone  so  bright  that 
morning!  Mother,  wait  a  little ;  I'm  almost  ready. 
Nellie,  tie  this  white  ribbon  round  my  waist;  there 
— so.     I  loved  him" 

The  strange  smile  was  i>laying  over  the  features ; 
her  hands  were  lifted  up,  and  she  seemed  to  be  meet- 
ing friends.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  struggle,  and 
then  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillow.  The  eyes  lost 
their  light,  the  smile  became  fixed — the  heart  ceased 
to  beat.  The  tried  spirit,  in  that  fearful  hour,  had 
stricken  out  the  long  weary  years  of  suffering  and 
sorrow,  and  had  linked  itself  with  the  freshness  and 
purity  of  its  early  youth;  to  that  day  and  time,  when 
her  soul  was  nearest  heaven — when  Nellie  fastened 
the  emblem  of  purity  over  her  beating  heart,  and  led 
her  away  to  become  the  bride  of  one  whom  she  loved 
with  all  a  woman's  true  devotion.  What  might  have 
been  her  life — how  much  that  is  good  and  beautiful 
might  have  budded  and  blossomed  in  so  true  a  soul — ■ 
had  he  walked  by  her  side  in  soberness  and  good 
faith  to  the  end ! 

It  had  taken  twenty-five  years  for  that  "  Old  Still- 
House"  to  crush  out  the  life  of  that  strong,  brave, 
though  erring,  woman.  Erring,  did  we  say  ?  Will 
the  recording  angels  set  down  against  her  the  sins  of 
so  tried  and  tempted  a  spirit?  No ;  rather  will  they 
say  at  the  last,  "AVell  done,  thou  good  and  faithful 
servant;  thou  hast  been  more  true,  amid  thy  manifold 
trials,  and  greater  in  thy  resistance  to  evil,  than  they 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  1G5 

who,  having  no  temptation,  have  stood  afar  off,  say- 
ing, '  I  am  holier  than  thou  ! ' " 

Will  God,  when  he  makes  up  his  jewels,  find  no 
diamond  amid  the  rubbish  of  such  a  life, — where 
faith,  and  hope,  and  labor,  linked  all  the  hours  of  a 
quarter  of  a  century  with  unfailing  love  ? 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

LOUD  were  the  wailings  of  grief  that  went  up 
jfrom  those  stricken  ones  in  that  solemn  midnight 
hour.  She  was  their  only  hope  and  comfort,  and  if 
she  had  sometimes  been  stern  and  fretful,  it  was  for- 
gotten now ;  they  saw  only  her  long  life  of  devotion 
and  love,  flecked  here  and  there  by  flitting  shadows, 
when  her  poor,  weary  and  tired  heart  could  bear  up 
no  longer. 

They  had  forced  the  husband  from  the  bed,  when 
they  found  the  cold  stiffened  fingers  released  their 
grasp,  and  the  tongue  ceased  to  say,  "  Let  him  stay ; 
I  loved  him  once."  He  seemed  unconscious,  mut- 
tered a  vile  curse,  and  stumbling  into  a  bed  in  the 
next  room,  was  soon  fest  asleep,  while  the  sorrow- 
ing children  still  sobbed  and  moaned  over  their  dead 
mother. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  Mrs.  Magoon,"  said  Martha,  "  I 
don't  know  what  is  to  become  of  us  now ;  he  never 
does  anything  to  help  us,  and  she  has  worked  so  hard 
— oh  !  mother !  mother !  mother !"  and  the  poor  girl 
broke  forth  afresh  in  weeping  and  lamentation. 

"  He  has  not  done  a  day's  work  for  four  years, 
only  what  he  has  done  for  your  folks,"  said  Reuben 
bitterly ;  "  and  in  all  that  time  he  never  came  home 

(166) 


THE    OLD    STILL- HO  USE.  167 

sober  or  without  his  half-gallon  jug  full,  and  she 
working  so  hard  ! " 

"  Only  last  week,"  said  little  Jane,  "  while  she  was 
'most  too  sick  to  keep  up,  and  Mrs.  Ferril  sent  her 
home  two  dollars  by  me,  as  I  went  from  school,  for 
washing  her  carpet,  and  she  was  going  to  buy  medi- 
cine with  it,  he  took  it  away  from  me  right  out  by 
the  gate,  before  her  face  and  eyes,  and  went  off  down 
to  the  corner,  and  he  and  old  Randall,  the  black- 
smith, were  drunk  there  two  or  three  days,  —  and 
now  she 's  dead ;  and  he  killed  her !  I  know  he  did ! " 
and  the  child  sobbed  aloud. 

"  She  is  at  rest"  said  Mrs.  Magoon,  with  a  choking 
voice. 

"  Yes,  she  is,"  said  Reuben ;  "  and  I  would  n't,  if 
I  could,  bring  her  to  life.  We  shall  miss  her ;  but 
it  is  best  as  it  is."  And  the  great  untrained  boy, 
who  was  ashamed  to  weep,  dashed  the  tears  from  his 
cheek,  as  he  looked  upon  her  cold,  still  face,  with 
that  strange  smile  lingering  about  it. 

"Yes,  better  as  it  is,  Reuben;  and  may  God 
shield  you  and  all  her  children  from  the  sorrows  she 
has  borne.  Remember  what  has  brought  them  upon 
her—" 

"  Mrs.  Magoon,"  said  the  young  man,  earnestly, 
"  never  a  starving  man  longed  for  food  as  I  long  for, 
and  love,  strong  drink.  It  is  a  desire  that  haunts 
me  day  and  night.  It  makes  my  nerves  quiver  and 
my  tongue  burn  to  see  or  smell  it.  I  can  drink  it 
now,  and  not  hurt  me.  But  if  I  thought  that  I 
would  ever  come  to  such  a  &te  as  thai  man  there,  or 


168  ELSIE   MAG  0  OX;     OB, 

bring  a  woman  to  suifer  as  she  has,  I  'd  never  touch 
the  stuff  again  while  I  live.  Xever,  so  help  me 
God;  I M  die  first." 

"  Reuben,  is  it  not  better  to  give  it  up  entirely 
now  ?  If  you  go  on,  thinking  you  can  stop  when 
you  like,  you  will  never  stop,  till  you  begin  to  suffer ; 
and  then  you  will  have  lost  the  power  of  self-control. 
Look  at  your  mother,  as  she  lies  there,  and  think  of 
all  she  has  had  to  bear.  Yet  when  she  married  your 
father,  he  thought  himself  as  safe  as  you  are  now, 
and  she  did  not  doubt  him  any  more  than  Ruth  doubts 
you.  Will  you  not  promise  me,  here,  for  the  love 
you  bore  her  who  is  gone ;  the  love  of  your  brothers 
and  sisters  who  must  now  look  up  to  you ;  the  love 
of  Ruth,  and  last  of  all,  the  love  I  know  you  feel 
for  me,  will  you  not  promise  me  now,  Reuben,  to 
drink  no  more?" 

She  led  him  to  the  bed-side.  "  Here,  Reuben,  let 
your  promise  go  up  to  heaven  with  the  passing  spirit, 
and  it  will  bless  the  vow ! " 

The  young  man  dropped  involuntarily  upon  his 
knees,  and  throwing  one  arm  over  the  body  of  his 
dead  mother,  cried  with  intense  anguish  : 

"I  will  never  taste  the  accursed  stuff  again; 
never !  never !  Oh !  mother,  help  me,  and  keep  me 
from  temptation ! "  Then  overcome  with  emotion,  he 
rushed  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Magoon  and  Elsie  closed  the  eyes  and  folded 
the  hands  of  the  weary  sleeper.  Other  neighbors 
hearing  the  news  dropped  in,  and  when  all  was  done 
that  could  be  for  the  family,  they  returned  home. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  169 

Sad  were  the  thoughts  of  the  mother  and  daughter 
as  they  wended  their  way  homeward  in  the  deep  still- 
ness of  the  night,  after  that  solemn  death-scene. 

Memory  was  busy  with  the  past,  and  with  the 
future,  and  they  walked  for  some  distance  in  silence. 

The  mother  spoke  first. 

"  We  have  seen  a  sad  sight  to-night,  Elsie." 

"  Yes,  mother."  l^^ 

"And  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  what  might 
happen  in  some  other  home." 

"  Mother,"  and  the  young  girl  grasped  her  mother's 
arm  convulsively,  —  "you  must  not  die!" 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that,  Elsie ;  but  you  have 
no  doubt  seen  that  your  father  is  more  given  to  his 
habits  than  ever?" 

"  Yes,  mother, "  answered  the  child,  mechanically. 
A  vision  of  horror  was  before  her  eyes.  She  had 
scarcely  ever  had  the  thought  come  before  her,  seri- 
ously, that  her  noble  mother  could  die.  But  the 
words  had  awakened  strange  feelings,  and  brought 
out  before  her  fearful  phantoms,  of  what  might  be  j 
and  she  clung  to  her  mother,  without  daring  to  say 
more,  lest  she  should  pour  out  from  her  full  heart 
curses  upon  him  whom  she  must  call  father. 

It  was  lat«  at  night,  or  rather  it  was  nearly  morn- 
ing ;  the  full  moon  was  sinking,  and  casting  the  long 
shadows  of  the  tall  trees  along  the  path ;  the  whip- 
poorwill,  which  always  sang  his  melancholy  strain  by 
the  river-side,  and  was  answered  from  every  grove  in 
the  neighborhood, — kept  up  his  wail.  The  owls 
down  in  the  glen  spied  a  storm  for  the  morrow  in 
15 


170  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;    OR. 

the  low  black  clouds  which  skirted  the  horizon,  and 
thev  laughed,  and  howled,  and  hooted,  as  owls  only 
can,  in  a  most  terrific  manner.  It  waa  lonely,  fearluUj 
lonelv,  as  the  two  walked  towards  their  home.  Elsie 
dang  closer  than  ever  to  her  mother,  and  thev  un- 
oonsdously  quickened  their  pace.  At  length  Mrs. 
Magoon  asked,  "  Are  you  frightened,  Elsie." 
^  "  Frightened !  why,  mother,  I  was  never  frightened 
'In  my  life,  when  I  could  see  no  danger." 

**  What  makes  you  walk  so  fast,  and  breathe  so 
hard ;  and  you  have  only  answered  me, '  Yes,  mother,' 
since  we  started?" 

The  dread  vision  grew  more  dim;  the  blood 
coursed  through  her  frame  more  warm  and  rapidly, 
and  she  answered, — 

"  I  am  weary  and  nervous  a  little,  and  I  could  not 
shake  off  a  strange  feeling  that  the  incidents  of  the 
night  have  thrown  over  me.  Mother,  look  down 
there  into  the  valley ;  was  there  ever  more  beautifid 
owm  ?  And  along  on  the  hill-side,  the  wheat  looks 
grand;  the  orchards  are  loaded  with  fruit,  and  the 
dairy  is  doing  wonders.  Everything  that  we  have 
d<Hie,  since  we  took  the  charge,  has  prospered ;  Provi- 
dence seems  answering  our  prayers  everywhere  but 
in  that  one  place,  where  of  all  others  we  most  ear- 
nestly seek  for  a  blessing.  Oh,  mother !  what  shall 
we  do  next  for  him  f" 

"  I  have  prayed,  my  child,  and  I  know  that  the 
fme  wiff  come^  Yes,  I  know  it;  and  my  heart  is 
ready  dieerfully  to  bear  and  suffer,  until  the  hour 
arrives." 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  171 

"  I  am  ready  to  bear,  mother ;  but  not  cheerfully. 
I  cannot  cheerfully  see  my  father  sinking  lower  and 
lower  every  day." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean ;  to  fret  and  wear  faces 
of  gloom  would  only  waste  our  own  energies,  and 
take  from  the  courage  of  the  rest.  We  must  keep 
up,  or  all  is  lost." 

"  I  fear  we  shall  have  a  scene  to-night  when  we  ^ 
get  home.  He  (when  she  spoke  of  him  as  an  inebri- 
ate,  she  coxdd  not  use  the  words  'father '  and  '  husband^) 
has  been  down  at  the  town  all  day ;  and  you  know 
he  always  comes  home  furious  from  there ;  and  when 
he  finds  us  both  gone,  and  no  warm  supper  prepared 
for  him,  he  w'ill  be  the  naore  so." 

"  And  we  forgot  to  tell  Alice ! " 

"  Yes.     And  she  is  thoughtless." 

The  new  fear  made  them  quiet  again ;  and  as  at 
last  they  reached  the  house,  the  sound  of  angry  alter- 
cation reached  their  ears.  The  voice  of  Richard, 
raised  to  a  high  pitch,  seemed  to  be  accusing  George 
for  some  remissness  of  duty. 

Lights  were  in  several  of  the  rooms,  showing  an 
unusual  commotion  at  that  hour.  The  two  women 
trembled. 

"  I  am  frightened  now,  mother;  there  is  something 
to  frighten  in  the  sound  of  that  voice,"  said  Elsie, 
the  younger. 

"Hush — what  is  he  saying?"  They  paused. 
"  Oh !  what  curses  he  is  pouring  upon  the  heads  of 
those  poor  children.     Listen  : " 

— "You're  a  set  of  devilish  brats,  just  like  your 


172  ELSIE   MAG  DON;    OR, 

mother,  every  one  of  you,  aud  I  '11 if  I  'H  stand 

it.     Here  I  come  home  at  night  and  find  her  trapesing 

off  to  the  neighbors,  and  no  supper.     And I'll 

kill  her  — yes  I  will !  I  '11  put  her  where  Truman's 
old  hag  will  be  turned  now,  about  six  foot  under 
ground  "  — 

"  Oh,  father ! "  screamed  Alice. 
^     "Shut  up;  nobody 's  going  to  hurt  you.     But  just 
let  her  show  her  face  "  — 

"  Eichard,  I  am  here,"  said  Elsie,  stepping  up  to 
him — thinking  that  her  presence  would  quiet  the 
tumult,  or  at  least  relieve  Alice  and  George. 

Richard  had  just  returned  home  from  the  village, 
where  he  had  been  carousing  with  a  gang  he  often 
met,  whose  delight  it  was  to  stir  up  his  wrath  against 
his  wife  and  daughter  for  the  part  they  had  taken 
against  the  '  Still-house ; '  for  the  influence  of  that  act 
had  touched  the  pockets,  if  not  the  morals,  of  every 
dram-seller  and  drinker  in  the  country  round.  He 
had  stayed  late,  started  home  in  his  little  wagon,  be- 
come languid  and  sleepy ;  and  his  horse,  wiser  than 
her  master,  had  drawn  the  carriage  safely  home,  and 
walked  up  to  the  stable-door  where  she  stood  quietly ; 
while  he  slept  s6undly,  curled  up  in  the  bottom  of 
the  vehicle,  where  he  had  pitched  down  when  he  first 
left  the  village.  When  he  awoke,  he  was  stiff  and 
cold,  and  cramped  with  his  uncomfortable  position. 
As  soon  as  he  knew  where  he  was,  he  scrambled  up 
and  took  a  heavy  drink  to  warm  him  up ;  then  tum- 
bled out,  and  began  unharnessing  his  horse,  which 
had  stood  there  so  long,  and  was  so  furiously  hungry. 


THE    OLD    STILL-irOUSE.  173 

that  she  angered  him  with  lier  impatience.  He  conM 
not  find  the  buckles,  so  he  drew  out  his  knife  and  cut 
his  way  through.  The  stable-door  was  locked,  and 
he  knocked  and  hallooed  for  the  key,  till  he  was  more 
enraged  than  ever ;  and  in  the  meantime  had  taken  an- 
other dram.  His  shouts  and  curses  at  length  wakened 
George,  who  went  to  him ;  and  who,  when  he  found 
half  the  harness  hanging  around  the  horse,  cut  to 
pieces,  could  not  forbear  saying  in  most  decided  terms 
what  he  thought,  giving  his  father  some  words  of 
advice  that  were,  to  say  the  least,  not  respectful, 
and  worked  him  into  a  state  of  perfect  frenzy.  He 
went  raving  into  the  house ;  called  up  Alice ;  ordered 
everything  he  wished  put  upon  the  table,  and  stood 
by  it,  with  a  butcher-knife  in  his  hand,  when  his  wife 
entered. 

He  did  not  wait  an  instant,  but  sprang  towards  her 
with  a  maniac's  fury.  The  three  drams  taken  so 
closely  together  had  not  had  time  to  stupefy,  only  to 
infuriate  him. 

"You  old  devil,  I'll  teach  you  to  tell  your  brats 
to  talk  to  me  as  that  imp  has  to-night." 

Elsie  sprang  back  again  out  of  the  door,  and  he 
started  after  her;  but  George,  who  was  strong,  seized 
him  from  behind  and  pinioned  his  arms  to  his  ribs, 
while  the  younger  Elsie  took  the  knife  from  his  hand, 
and  by  their  united  strength  they  held  him  until  the 
liquor  had  completely  overcome  him,  and  then  he 
dropped  upon  the  floor,  unable  to  rise  again.  He  was 
soon  too  stupid  to  make  any  resistance,  and  they  then 
carried  him  into  a  small  room  used  by  him  as  an 
16* 


174  ELSIE  MAGOO K;    0 R, 

office,  laid  him  on  a  lounge,  and,  locking  the  door, 
left  hini  there. 

It  was  near  morning,  and  tlie  flunily  gathered  to 
consult  what  could  be  and  what  ought  to  be  done. 

"He  will  certainly  kill  you,  mother,"  said  George, 
"if  he  goes  on  in  this  way;  he  is  perfectly  mad  when 
he  is  as  he  was  to-night." 

"I  never  knew  him  so  furious  before,"  said  the 
wife,  in  sad  tones. 

"But  you  will  see  him  so  again,  and  he  has  threat- 
ened you  so  often,  that  I  feel  there  is  danger ;  and  we 
cannot  afford  to  give  you,  too,  a  martyr  to  the  demon 
Intemperance,"  said  Elsie. 

"No,  nor  any  of  us,"  said  George;  "the  cattle  and 
horses  are  not  safe  either.  He  is  the  biggest  brute 
of  them  all." 

"  Hush,  hush,  George ;  you  must  not  speak  so,  my  son. 
Let  him  be  what  he  will,  you  can  still  be  respectful." 

"I  feel  it,  mother,  and  I  can't  help  it.  He  struck 
Alice  to-night ;  oh !  such  a  blow.  It  would  have 
felled  her  to  the  floor  if  I  had  not  warded  it  off. 
Look  at  my  arm."  And  the  boy  showed  the  bruise 
upon  his  arm,  that,  had  it  fallen  with  all  its  force, 
would  nearly  have  killed  her.  "J  say,  go  and  swear 
your  lives  against  him,"  said  the  impetuous  boy. 

"  And  what  good  will  that  do?  It  will  only  spread 
our  disgrace;  and  besides,  he  has  nothing  to  pay  a  fine, 
and  anybody  in  the  county  will  go  his  bail ;  he  is  so 
good  and  noble  when  he  is  sober,  nobody  will  believe 
us  if  we  tell  them  how  badly  he  acts  at  home,"  said 
Elsie,  the  younger. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  175 

*  

"No!"  said  the  mother.     "We  mnst  not  talk  of 

such  a  thing.     What  is  done  must  be  done  here  at 
home.     Alas!  can  we  do  anything?" 

"Nothing,  unless  we  can  get  father  thoroughly 
sober,  which  he  has  not  been  for  months,  even  years. 
If  we  can  accomplish  that — can  keep  him  from  drink, 
in  any  way,  long  enough  to  have  his  reason  once  take 
possession,  I  believe  we  could  save  him ;  and  it  shall 
be  done,"  said  Elsie,  the  daughter. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

ELSIE  arose  deliberately,  took  the  jug  from  the 
corner  of  the  table,  and  emptied  its  contents  out 
of  the  window. 

"  He  will  kill  you,"  said  Alice. 

"  He  will  not,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "  Mother,  go 
lie  down  and  rest  till  daybreak.  Go,  Alice  and 
George.     Oh  !  what  a  night  this  has  been  ! " 

They  obeyed  her  as  one  having  authority;  for 
beautiful  and  grand  she  stood  in  that  hour  of  trial, 
ready  to  brave  all  things  for  the  sake  of  those  she 
loved. 

"  If  I  can  keep  him  where  he  is  till  he  gets  duly 
sober,"  said  she  to  herself,  "and  then  reason  with  him, 
I  am  sure  he  will  yield.  He  will  not  dare  expose  us 
again  to  such  dangers  as  he  has  to-night.  But  how 
can  I  come  face  to  face,  and  reason  with  my  father 
over  his  shame  and  madness  ?  I  cannot.  But  I  can 
write." 

She  went  to  her  room,  and,  taking  her  pen,  wrote 
out  the  strong  emotions  of  her  soul  in  a  pleading 
prayer  to  her  father  to  abstain  from  drink.  She 
recounted  the  death-scene  of  poor  Mrs.  Truman,  and 
then  his  fury  and  diabolical  attempt  against  the  life 
of  her  mother;  his  blow  aimed  at  Alice;  and  the  fear 
that  in  some  moment  of  frenzy  he  would  accomplish 

(176) 


THE   OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  177 

his  threats,  and  justice  would  fall  upon  him,  and  not 
upon  him  alone,  but  upon  them  all ;  for  with  his  deep 
disgrace  and  punishment  would  come  to  them, —  wlio 
were  innocent, — a  sorrow  that  would  crush  them  as 
well  as  himself. 

"Oh!  my  father,"  she  continued,  " there  is  a  suffer- 
ing that  goes  even  beyond  the  misery  of  the  crime 
and  sin  of  the  one  who  inflicts  it.  Could  you  see 
dear  mother  as  I  see  her,  defending  your  name  and 
honor,  pointing  us  back  to  the  time  when  you  were 
the  sun  and  glory  of  our  home;  could  you  see  her  tears 
of  sorrow  now,  her  nights  of  suffering,  hear  her  plead- 
ings of  hope,  and  with  how  strong  a  spirit  she  resists 
despair,  you  would,  for  her  sake,  if  not  for  your  own, 
turn  aside  from  that  path  beset  with  devils,  which  you 
have  chosen.  Oh!  by  the  love  you  once  bore  us,  be 
a  man  again;  be  as  you  were  when  I  used  to  climb  on 
your  knee  and  kiss  your  lips, —  which  had  not  then 
cursed  me, — as  when  I  stood  upon  your  knee,  and 
with  tiny  fingers  smoothed  out  those  silken  curls,  that 
now  lie  sodden  and  matted  upon  your  brow,  because 
no  hand  of  love  dare  approach  you.  Oh!  be  again 
as  when  you  used  to  sing  your  beautiful  songs,  at 
twilight,  upon  the  old  door-stone,  till  my  little  heart 
melted  in  ecstasy,  I  scarce  knew  why,  upon  your 
bosom,  and  swelled  out  in  thankfulness  to  God  that 
he  had  made  me  the  daughter  of  such  a  father. 

"Do  not  curse  us  that  we  have  turned  the  key 
upon  y-ou ;  it  was  love  —  the  love  of  children  for  their 
father  and  mother,  that  prompted  us.  Keflect  that 
you  have  been  a  maniac  for  months,  and  that,  unless 


178  ELSIE   M  AGO  ON;    OB, 

you  can  be  induced  to  let  your  brain  regain  its  true 
temperature,  and  your  reason  return  once  more,  you 
will  never  be  free.  Suppose  the  heavy  blow,  which 
has  so  bruised  George,  had  fallen  on  the  head  of  our 
dear,  delicate  Alice,  as  you  designed.  Suppose  that 
knife — used  for  years  to  cut  the  bread  that  supplied 
the  household-table — had  reached  the  heart  of  our 
mother,  as  you  intended  it  should, — a  key  would  have 
been  turned  on  you,  a  more  inexorable  jailer  would 
have  held  it — than  any  of  those  who  now  only  wish 
to  save  you  for  themselves  and  for  yourself,  can  ever 
be.  We  would  rather  yield  our  own  lives  if  by  so 
doing  we  could  make  yours  pure,  than  to  see  you  live 
out  a  few  more  shameful  years  a  drunkard.  Oh !  my 
fether !  my  father  a  drunkard  !  To  save  the  farm  ; 
to  save  my  mother  from  beggary  and  ruin ;  to  pre- 
serve the  younger  children  from  being  scattered,  as 
outcasts  over  the  earth,  I  have  dared  to  do  what  many 
women  would  have  thought  impossible.  But  with 
God's  help  I  will  pay  for  it  all,  asking  only  as  a 
recompense,  that  my  father,  in  his  old  age,  shall  live 
under  the  trees  he  has  planted,  and  eat  the  fruit  of 
the  vines  which  in  his  stalwart  manhood  he  trained, 
an  honored  and  respected  man." 

Her  letter  was  written,  and  blistered  over  with 
many  tears.  When  done,  it  was  directed,  and  fastened 
to  the  handle  of  his  empty  jug,  and  set  inside  the 
door  of  his  room,  while  he  yet  remained  in  his  stupid 
sleep. 

When  she  arose  in  the  morning,  she  repeated  to 
her  mother  what  she  had  done ;  and  as  the  family 


THE    OLD  , STILL-HOUSE.  179 

came  from  their  slumbers,  one  after  another,  they 
were  hushed  into  quiet,  that  his  sleep  might  be  pro- 
longed as  far  as  possible. 

Fear  rested  upon  the  whole  household.,  George 
did  not  dare  go  away  to  the  field ;  but  the  younger 
ones  were  sent  away  as  far  as  possible.  It  was  near 
ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  before  Richard  became 
sufficiently  aroused  to  seek  for  his  bottle.  They  heard 
his  mutterings,  heard  him  rise;  and  come  to  the 
door,  lift  the  jug  and  set  it  down  with  a  growl ;  then 
all  was  still. 

This  little  room,  or  study,  as  he  called  it,  had  long 
been  his  sanctum,  into  which  he  retired  when  he 
wished  to  avoid  observation.  It  was  furnished  with  a 
settee,  on  which  he  often  slept  for  hours ;  his  pitcher 
and  tumbler  always  stood  upon  the  mantle ;  and  here 
he  often  shut  himself  for  days.  There  was  no  word 
spoken  inside,  and  all  was  quiet  without,  and  so  the 
day  passed  away. 

Towards  evening,  Elsie  opened  the  door  cautiously. 
He  seemed  slumbering  on  the  settee ;  and  she  placed 
a  tray,  with  a  bowl  of  hot  coffee  and  other  food, 
upon  his  table,  and  left  the  door  unlocked.  The 
night  passed ;  and  if  he  left  the  room,  no  one  knew 
it ;  and  so  for  three  days  he  continued  his  voluntary 
imprisonment. 

What  were  his  thoughts,  what  the  trials  of  his 
spirit  during  those  three  days,  no  one  on  earth  will 
ever  know ! 

On  the  fourth  morning,  he  came  out  and  went  as 
usual  to  his  work.     At  breakfast-time,  he  took  his 


180  ELSIE    MAG  0  OK;     OB, 

accustomed  seat  at  the  table.  There  was  an  evident 
awkwardness  and  restraint— a  choking  down  of  emo- 
tions—a  turning  away  from  the  crowding,  suffocating 
thoughts,  that  were  thronging  upon  him.  But  grad- 
ually, little  by  little,  the  conversation  glided  into  the 
ordinary  stream  of  family  talk. 

After  breakfast,  Richard  went  out  with  George,  to 
the  barn.  The  old  harness  hung  over  the  gate  in  all 
its  fragments.  Richard  took  it  down,  carried  it  into 
the  tool-room;  and  with  patient  care  it  was  soon 
mended. 

Then  he  sought  the  garden  ;  looked  around  for 
some  light  work,  and  finally  came  in,  just  before 
dinner,  laid  himself  down  upon  the  bed,  covered  his 
face,  and  slept. 

For  many  days  he  went  patiently  and  quietly  about 
his  work,  his  old  gentleness  and  cheerfulness  seemed 
returning,  and  great  joy  came  upon  them  all.  Elsie's 
voice  was  heard  at  early  dawn,  like  the  song  of  the 
morning-bird ;  the  step  of  the  mother  grew  lighter, 
and  her  cheek  and  eye  brightened  with  every  hour 
of  hope  and  comfort. 

It  was  the  custom  to  go  once  a  week  to  the  town 
in  the  family  carriage,  to  take  the  butter  to  a  particu- 
lar customer,  and  do  any  shopping  that  was  needed 
for  the  family.  The  usual  day  came;  the  horses 
stood  pawing  impatiently  at  the  gate.  Mrs.  Magoon 
was  ready,  and  only  waited  to  lay  her  beautiful  rolls, 
rich  and  golden,  in  the  basket  with  her  own  hands, 
when  Richard  emerged  from  the  bedroom,  with  a 
clean  shirt  and  his  best  suit  on,  and  said  quietly,  "  I 


THE    OLD    STILL-EOVSE.  ISi 

believe  I  will  go  with  you,  Elsie;  it's  a  long  time 
since  we  have  been  down  together." 

Elsie's  heart  beat  quick  and  hard.  "  You  have  no 
objection,  have  you?"  said  he. 

"  Certainly  not,"  was  her  quick  reply.  But  Rich- 
ard had  caught  the  troubled  glance  that  told  the  fear 
within.  She  had  no  objection,  only  the  fear  that  he 
was  not  yet  sufficiently  strong  to  resist  the  temptations 
that  would  beset  him. 

They  walked  down  the  path  together  to  the  gate, 
he  carrying  the  basket,  as  in  olden  time.  She  was 
happy,  oh !  how  happy !  for  the  returning  kindness 
and  affection.  But  would  he  not  fail  ?  She  dashed 
away  the  doubt,  sprang  into  the  carriage,  and  they 
drove  off. 

The  day  passed  on  as  usual.  The  errands  were 
done ;  and  at  evening  they  turned  the  horses'  heads 
homeward.  Proud  and  happy  was  she  ;  for  "  Rich- 
ard was  himself  again."  He  had  not  drank  a  drop  j 
but  he  seemed  restless  and  uneasy ;  his  eyes  were 
heavy,  and  his  face  flushed.  It  had  been  a  hot  day. 
He  complained  of  chilliness,  which  was  followed  by 
fever,  and  reached  home,  severely  ill.  His  long 
course  of  excess,  his  exposures,  and  his  sudden  aban- 
donment of  stimulants,  had  induced  a  slow  typhoid 
fever ;  from  which  he  arose,  nearly  six  months  after, 
weak  and  broken,  —  blessing  heaven  every  day  that 
his  two  children,  George  and  Elsie,  had  been  able 
to  do  so  well  in  managing  the  farm,  and  pro- 
viding for  the  family ;  and  more  especially,  for  the 
care  and  tenderness  of  his  wife,  which  had,  as  the 
16 


182  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

doctor  every  day  told  hinij  raised  him  from  the 
grave. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  harvest,  that  he  was 
taken  sick,  and  it  was  in  the  dead  of  winter,  when, 
for  the  first  time  propped  up  with  pillows  in  the  big 
arm-chair,  he  looked  out  upon  the  fields  covered  with 
snow,  and  saw  the  comfort  and  thrift  that  seemed  to 
surround  him.  The  barn  had  been  weather-boarded, 
and  the  cattle  housed  from  the  wintry  blast.  The 
hay-stacks,  capped  with  snow-wreaths,  looked  thrifty 
and  picturesque.  His  mind,  which  had  been  sadly 
bewildered  through  his  sickness,  seemed  to  be  gath- 
ering up  the  fragments  of  the  past. 

"  Elsie,"  said  he,  "  Mrs.  Truman  died  just  before 
I  was  taken  down ;  what  became  of  the  family  ?  " 

"Oh,  they  are  doing  finely.  Truman  promised 
me,  at  his  wife's  funeral,  that  he  would  not  drink 
any  more ;  and  Reuben  made  the  same  pledge  over  the 
dead  body  of  his  mother ;  and  they  have  not  drank 
since.  They  worked  for  us  through  harvest,  and  did 
well.  You  know  they  are  both  good  hands  when 
sober;  and  not  a  drop  of  anything  stronger  than 
water,  went  into  the  field  to  tempt  them." 

"  Thank  God  for  that ! "  said  the  weary  invalid. 

"  Elsie  rented  them  those  twenty  acres  over  the 
run,  you  know,  and  they  have  girdled  and  cleared  it 
off,  and  raised  a  fine  crop  of  late  pickles  and  turnips. 
The  boys  all  work,  I  have  persuaded  Mr.  Truman  to 
let  Israel  learn  the  blacksmith-trade,  with  Randall." 

"  And  is  Randall  sober  enough,  nowadays,  to 
teach  a  boy  a  trade  ?  " 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  183 

"  Yes,  indeed.  After  the  '  Still-house '  went  down, 
a  new  state  of  things  arose  from  its  ashes,  llandall 
seldom  drinks  any  now. 

"  Israel  works  well ;  and  Thomas  is  learning  the 
shoemaker's  trade  in  Smithville.  Martha  and  Jane 
manage  nicely  at  home.  Susan  has  learned  to  weave, 
and  makes  a  good  many  dollai-s  that  way.  They  had 
no  hope  while  the  old  man  behaved  so  badly ;  but 
now  they  all  seem  willing  to  work.  The  house  has 
been  repaired,  and  they  are  really  comfortable." 

"  Who  keeps  the  district  school  this  winter,  Elsie?" 

"  Why  !  don't  you  know  ?  Elsie  has  been  teaching 
it  these  two  months.  Alice  and  Kate  get  along 
nicely  with  the  work ;  so  Elsie  took  the  school." 

"Big  boys  and  all?" 

"  Yes ;  big  boys  and  all.  And  she  has  not  had 
one  bit  of  trouble.  Ned  Brant  and  Steph  Ferril 
obey  orders  like  two  little  girls.  She  has  seventy 
scholars,  and  could  have  twenty  more,  but  the  house 
won't  hold  them." 

"  I  thought  I  missed  her  sometimes,  lately,  through 
the  day ;  but  she  seemed  to  come  in  often ;  and  I  am  so 
weak,  I  don't  remember.  How  are  all  the  neighbors  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  are  all  doing  nicely.  George  Brant 
was  married,  last  week,  to  Susie  Underbill." 

Richard  looked  up  with  surprise. 

"You  thought  he  was  thinking  of  Elsie;  and  I 
did  too,  for  a  time.  But  it  was  all  a  mistake.  He 
liked  her,  there's  no  doubt;  but  she  has  no  wish  to 
marry,  and  I  think,  will  not,  for  years  to  come." 

"  Maybe  so ! "  said  the  invalid,  with  a  faint  smile 


1S4  F  L  S I E   MA  GOON. 

of  incrodulity.  "One  question  more:  What  lias 
become  of  Slidell,  and  Yanliorn,  and  Bell,  and  Sam- 
son, and  the  others  who  lived  over  the  creek  ?  Now 
the '  Still-house '  is  done  for,  how  do  they  get  liquor  ?  " 

"  Bell  and  Vanhorn  have  moved  off,  nobody  knows 
where ;  and  the  others  have  joined  our  Temperance 
Society,  which  meets  once  a  week,  at  the  school-house." 

Richard  bit  his  lip. 

"Oh!  there  Jias  been  a  great  change  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, I  can  tell  you.  We  inquired  for  the  poor 
and  needy  last  Tuesday  night,  in  our  Temperance 
meeting,  and  found  that  there  was  not  one  in  the 
township.  The  whole  people  have  become  temper- 
ate. We  have  all  cause  to  thank  Providence  for  the 
change." 

"  Thank  Elsie  Magoon  and  her  daughter  first !  "  mur- 
mured Richard.  "If  that  'Still-liouse'  had  gone  into 
the  hands  of  Porter,  what  would  have  become  of  the 
town?" 

The  sick  man  was  overcome  with  the  thought;  and 
covering  his  eyes  with  his  emaciated  hands,  the  tears 
trickled  through  his  fingers. 

"There!"  said  Elsie,  springing  to  his  side;  "I  have 
talked  too  much.  Dear  Richard,  don't  weep  I  let  by- 
gones be  by-gones.  Come :  let  me  help  you  into  the 
bed ;  you  must  go  to  sleep  now." 

She  led  him  to  the  bed,  adjusted  the  8no^^y  pillows 
beneath  his  head,  smoothed  back  the  hair  from  his 
pale  forehead,  and  as  he  murmured  a  "God  bless 
you ! "  she  laid  her  lips  upon  his,  and  answered  back 
the  prayer. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

YOUNG  Elsie  Magoon,  whom  we  found  sleeping 
in  her  cradle  at  the  comraenceraent  of  our  story, 
now  conies  before  us  a  beautiful  and  graceful  woman. 
The  stem  discipline  of  her  life  had  only  served  to 
bring  out  more  strongly  the  best  points  of  her  char- 
acter, and  to  fix  in  her  mind  the  determination  to 
give  heed  only  to  the  highest  and  holiest  impulses  of 
her  nature. 

By  her  adroitness  in  the  different  branches  of  labor 
assigned  to  the  females  about  the  farmhouse,  she  had 
been  able  to  pay  for  a  substitute  to  take  her  place  in 
the  kitchen  at  home,  while  she  attended  the  Smith- 
ville  Seminary  for  young  ladies,  and  acquired  some 
of  the  accomplishments  as  well  as  the  more  solid 
studies  of  the  time. 

To  her  intuitive  mind,  a  long  course  of  hard  study 
under  teachers  did  not  seem  necessary.  She  grasped 
the  key  of  science  offered  by  her  teachers,  and  went 
forward  opening  such  doors  as  suited  her,  taking  pos- 
session of  the  priceless  treasures  within ;  and  while 
other  girls  in  the  neighborhood  wasted  their  hours  of 
leisure  at  parties  and  balls,  Elsie's  candle  flickered  in 
the  west  chamber  and  threw  its  gleams  over  many  a 
page  that  even  the  minister  of  Smithville,  who  had 
brought  his  sheepskin  embellished  with  blue  ribbons 
16*  (186) 


18G  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

from  the  classic  shades  of  Yale,  thought  quite  beyond 
the  comprehension  of  women-folk. 

Elsie's  mother  was  a  close  reader  and  thinker,  and 
could  help  her  daughter  in  all  her  studies ;  but  with 
all  her  mental  power,  Elsie  remained  the  generous, 
cheerful,  frank  country  girl,  whom  the  maidens  round 
about  loved  as  w^ell  as  if  no  superiority  of  effort  had 
lifted  her  mentally  so  far  above  them.  Nor  was  this 
admiration  confined  to  those  of  her  own  sex.  Many 
of  the  young  men  found  their  hearts  warming  towards 
the  merry  maiden. 

George  Brant,  who  had  been  to  college  three  whole 
years,  and  had  returned  with  clustering  chestnut  curls 
about  a  fine  face,  and  who  bade  fair  to  be  a  marked 
man  among  them  as  a  merchant's  clerk  at  Smithville, 
was  among  the  number  of  her  admirers.  There  was 
much  wondering  among  the  gossips ;  but  they  could 
decide  nothing.  Elsie  met  him  without  blushes, 
laughed  and  talked  with  him  without  visible  emotion, 
until  he  married  Susie  Underbill,  and  put  an  end  to 
all  speculations  on  the  subject. 

Half  a  dozen  others  had  been  known  to  call  at 
Farmer's  Castle,  or  to  ride  home  with  Miss  Elsie; 
but  she  was  so  genial  and  kind,  and  withal  so  entirely 
proper,  that  not  a  dish  of  rumor  could  be  concocted 
from  these  occasions.  Some  people  have  a  wonderful 
faculty  of 

"  Keeping  something  to  themselves 
They  scarcely  tell  to  any." 

And  so  had  Elsie  Magoon. 

Mrs.  Deacon  Hill,  who  was  the  head  of  the  house 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSJ'J.  187 

up  on  the  bend,  and  who  has  been  on  several  occa- 
sions introduced  to  the  reader,  deserves  a  more  explicit 
notice. 

"There's  tlie  Deacon  and  his  wife  going  down  to 
the  ford,"  said  Alice,  one  day,  as  she  saw  the  well- 
filled  market- wagon  rolling  by,  in  which  were  seated 
the  pair  alluded  to. 

"Troth!  tliin,  it's  different  you  should  be  saying 
it,"  said  Hitty  Talford,  who  was  busy  shelling  peas 
for  dinner.  "It's  Mrs.  Hill  and  her  man;  for  sure 
it's  herself  will  make  every  bargain,  from  the  butter- 
rolls  in  her  tin  bucket  to  the  white  calf  that's  tied  to 
the  back  end  of  the  wagon." 

"Maybe  she  can  do  it  better  than  her  lord  and 
master,"  answered  Alice,  with  a  cheery  laugh. 

"  And,  faith !  she  does  that.  Lord  and  master ! 
Why,  bless  ye !  it 's  niver  a  thought  he  gets  into  his 
head  only  from  stubbornness  that  he  doesn't  be 
taking  from  her.  Not  that  I  'd  be  saying  the  Deacon 's 
not  good  enough,  in  his  way;  but  it's  a  wonderful 
smart  woman  the  Deacon's  wife  is,  if  she  ha'n't  got 
no  laming.  She's  only  ignorant  on  the  outside;  for, 
saving  your  mother  and  Miss  Elsie,  there's  not  her 
match  in  town.  Och!  but  she's  a  great  hand  to  make 
money,  and  more  nor  that.  Miss  Alice,  haven't  I 
knowed  her  these  twenty  years,  and  thin  niver  a  word 
could  she  read  in  her  Bible,  and  now  she  can  talk 
with  the  ministers  like^a  book;  and  that  Fred  of 
hers  is  the  natest  young  gintleman  I've  seen  in  this 
country,  and,  sure  I  am,  Miss  Elsie  here  will  not  be 
disputing  me  there." 


188  ELSIE    MA  G  0  0  X;     O  B. 

Elsie,  who  had  just  entered  the  kitchen,  blushed 
starlet,  and  old  Kitty's  keen  eve  caught  the  signal ; 
bat  Alice  saw  nothing. 

Indeed,  so  full  of  generosity  and  kindly  gallantry 
was  Fred  Hill,  that  he  had  become  a  universal  fevor- 
ite,  whom  yet  they  only  thought  of  as  the  very  best 
and  brightest  boy  at  all  their  parties  and  merry- 
makings; the  one  whose  music  and  mirth  infiised  all 
the  rest  with  joy  and  gladness. 

But  Fred  Hill  and  Elsie  !Magoon  had  been  especial 
friends  since  the  days  of  their  childhood,  and  at 
length,  unsuspected  by  any,  so  quiet  were  they  in 
their  demonstrations  of  affection,  and  so  universal  in 
tibieir  kindness  to  all,  a  deep  and  abiding  love  filled 
tibeir  hearts  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  guets. 

But  Fred  had  left  the  neighborhood  years  ago,  and 
gone  to  California  or  somewhere,  nobody  knew  where, 
nor  did  anybody  know  exactly  why.  There  were 
rumors  afloat  of  a  quarrel  between  him  and  his  father ; 
for,  as  old  Hjtty  said,  the  Deacon  had  one  point  in 
his  character  as  unyielding  as  a  knot  of  live  oak, — 
stubbornness.  When  he  had  once  taken  a  position, a 
tiling  he  did  not  often  do,  he  adhered  to  it  as  if  to 
convince  the  world  that  he  could  have  a  will  of  his 
own  sometimes;  and  the  more  Mrs.  Hill  tried  to 
change  him,  the  more  persistently  he  refused  to  be 
changed- 

Something  was  certainly  wrong  between  the  Deacon 
and  Fred;  for  the  former  always  flew  into  a  passion 
whoi  mention  was  made  of  the  absent  boy.  The 
workmen  told  of  a  spiteful  quarrel,  and  that  Fred 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  189 

liad  struck  the  old  man ;  but  who  could  believe  such 
a  story  of  one  so  far  above  his  fellows  in  morals  and 
manners?  For,  though  Mrs,  Deacon  Hill  did  hold 
the  reins  usually,  she  drove  with  a  steady  hand,  and 
there  were  no  better  boys  and  girls  than  those  she 
had  disciplined. 

Fred's  disappearance  had  been  but  a  seven  days' 
wonder,  and  scarcely  that;  for  half  the  boys  in  Smith- 
ville  had  gone,  and  mothers  were  too  full  of  anxious 
care  about  their  own  to  talk  much  of  others. 

If  Elsie's  heart  was  sad,  no  one  knew  it.  Her 
life  was  full  of  duty  and  earnestness. 


I 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

«  TSN'T  she  magnificent?" 

-L  "  Rather  so ;  but  I  fancy  I  have  seen  girls  just  as 
fine-looking;  that  old  flame  of  yours,  for  instance, 
who  used  to  gallop  by  your  side  so  splendidly,  on 
the  beach  .at  Newport  last  August." 

"  Pshaw  !  that  pale,  die-away  beauty  ?  she 's  not  a 
circumstance — shouldn't  be  talked  of  in  the  same 
day  with  this  flying  '  Die  Vernon.' " 

"  I  presume  this  one  will  wear  the  ribbons  till  an- 
other turns  up,  who  will  probably  as  far  surpass  the 
present  meteor  as  this  one  does  the  star  of  last  season." 

"  Eliza  Wetherell  was  a  beauty,  no  mistake ;  and 
when  well  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  the 
glow  of  excitement  and  emulation  on  her  brow,  she  was 
not  to  be  treated  with  contempt.  But  hers  was  a 
languid  beauty,  that  won  your — what  shall  I  call 
it? — pity  comes  too  near  contempt." 

"  Won  your  tenderness,  and  made  you  feel  pro- 
tective." 

"  Yes,  that 's  it  exactly ;  I  used  to  love  to  feel  the 
pressure  of  her  pretty  foot  on  my  hand,  as  I  lifted 
her  into  her  saddle,  like  a  fairy  bird ;  and  then  to 
ride  by  her  side  holding  her  rein,  and  ready  to  take 
her  under  my  arm,  and  screen  her  from  all  harm,  if 
her  steed  but  dared  to  step  awry.     I  tell  you,  Wal- 

(190) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  191 

ters,  there  is  a  kind  of  soft,  sentimental  pleasure  in 
the  society  of  a  woman  who  never  has  a  will  of  her 
own,  and  who  seems  to  hang  upon  you  as  if  you  had 
in  your  hand  the  power  of  giving  and  taking  life, 
or  happiness,  at  will.  But  there  is  a  bold  up-spring- 
ing joy,  that  stirs  my  whole  manhood  into  a  kind  of 
idolatrous  enthusiasm,  when  I  see  such  a  woman  as 
thxit.  See  how  she  rules  that  high-mettled  steed ! 
By  George !  I  wish  I  knew  who  she  is." 

"  Here  are  our  horses,  and  if  you  are  so  extremely 
anxious,  you  can  make  chase,  and  follow  '  the  Lady 
of  the  Black  Plume,'  till  you  find  in  exactly  what 
lofty  castle  she  hangs  her  chapeau,  and  how  many 
bold  retainers  wait  her  bidding." 

"  Agreed.  And,  by  the  way,  she  is  going  our  road : 
so  let  us  be  off." 

The  foregoing  conversation  was  held  between  two 
young  men,  who  stood  ready  to  mount  their  horses, 
at  the  Smithville  hotel,  one  pleasant  Indian-summer 
afternoon,  in  the  year  18 — .  The  person  who  had 
elicited  so  much  admiration  from  Albert  Lincoln, 
was  a  tall,  finely-formed  lady,  who,  in  a  long,  gray 
riding-skirt,  and  hat  of  the  same  shade,  surmounted 
by  a  black  ostrich  plume,  emerged  from  a  dry-goods 
store  across  the  way.  Her  habit  was  gracefully  gath- 
ered in  one  hand,  while  the  other  held  a  light  riding- 
whip.  She  stepped  to  a  beautiful  black  steed  that 
stood  pawing  the  earth,  nearly  opposite,  and  taking 
the  reins  in  her  left  hand,  and  laying  the  right  upon 
the  horn  of  her  saddle,  she  sprang  into  her  place  as 
easily  as  if  she  were  stepping  over  the  threshold ; 


192  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

adjusted  herself  neatly  on  the  saddle,  and  with  a 
snap  of  her  finger  to  a  splendid  greyhound  that  lay 
near  by,  horse,  rider,  and  hound  dashed  away  at  a 
rapid  pace  up  the  steep  hill  that  skirted  the  village, 
when  the  two  friends,  Albert  Lincoln  and  Charles 
Walters,  mounted  their  horses  and  followed  the  same 
path. 

They  were  to  remain  in  town  over  Sunday,  and 
had  called  for  horses  to  enjoy  a  ride  up  the  valley. 

The  two  young  gentlemen  were  travelling  agents 
for  large  firms  in  New  York,  one  of  dry -goods,  and 
the  other  of  hardware  ;  and  were,  just  now,  spending 
a  few  days  at  the  town  of  Smithville,  as  we  may  now 
call  it,  having  outgrown  that  stage  in  which  the 
Westerner  would  call  it  a  village. 

Both  were  sons  of  members  of  the  firms,  well  edu- 
cated, and  well-bred,  and  were  for  the  first  time  en- 
joying a  trip  through  the  rich  and  rapidly  improving 
States  west  of  the  Alleghanies. 

As  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hiU,  which  they 
ascended  more  slowly  than  did  the  charger  of  the 
lady,  they  looked  off  down  the  main  road,  but  could 
see  nothing  of  the  object  of  pursuit. 

"  Lost !  lost !  lost !  "  said  Walters,  running  his  eye 
along  the  level  road  as  it  skirted  the  river's  brink  for 
two  or  three  miles,  in  open  view. 

"  Turned  into  some  by-path,"  answered  Lincoln. 
"  Keep  an  eye  out  your  side  the  road,  and  I  will  mine; 
for  I  am  bound  to  follow." 

They  paused,  to  look  on  the  landscape  that  lay 
beneath. — The  water  wound  away,  like  a  line  of 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  193 

silver,  for  miles,  amid  large  farms,  cultivated  corn- 
fields, and  well-trimmed  forest,  interspersed  with  or- 
chards and  rich  green  meadows,  which  frequent  fall- 
rains  had  kept  in  spring-time  beauty.  The  corn  was 
cut  and  gathered  in  shocks,  all  along  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  while  the  high  hills  that  rose  beyond,  stretch- 
ing their  tops  almost  to  the  sky,  were  one  bright  blaze 
of  crimson  and  gold.  There  is  no  more  beautiful 
sight  than  our  grand  old  forest-hills  of  the  West,  when 
they  put  on  their  gorgeous  hues  at  the  touch  of  the 
fatal  frost. 

OflP,  in  the  distance,  but  in  full  view,  along  the 
winding  of  the  stream,  lay  the  rich  and  well-tilled 
farm  of  Richard  Magoon.  His  large  white  mansion- 
house,  which  years  ago  had  crowded  away  the  cabin  at 
the  door  of  which  he  and  his  wife  sat  when  we  began 
our  tale, — loomed  up  amid  the  surrounding  forest, 
like  some  old  ancestral  hall.  The  lines  of  dark  ce- 
dars along  the  garden-walks,  the  great  weeping-wil- 
Jows  at  the  gate,  the  huge  barns,  and  the  l(Mig  sheds 
for  the  sheep,  which  lay  near  them,  looking  in  the 
distance  like  huge  white  lilies,  amid  the  green  of  the 
pastures,  made  a  scene  enchantingly  beautiful  to  the 
young  travellers. 

"What  a  magnificent  landscape,"  said  Walters. 
"  Now,  if  we  could  spy  your  beauty  somewhere  in 
the  midst  of  it,  and  make  her  the  queenly  mistress 
of  yon  *  Farmer's  Castle,'  we  should  have  a  romance 
of  the  most  enchanting  kind." 

"Ah !  yes — provided  I  could  in  the  meantime  get 
up  an  excuse  for  a  call,  and  worm  myself  into  an 
17 


Wt%. 


194  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

invitation  to  spend  the  Sabbath  under  those  willows, 
instead  of  sulking  round  all  day  in  that  abominable 
hotel,"  replied  Lincoln,  still  peering  into  the  deep 
forest  that  closed  in  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  — 
hoping  to  spy  the  path  that  had  carried  with  it  the 
object  of  his  interest. 

"  The  easiest  thing  in  the  world,  Lincoln.  Do  you 
see  that  noble  flock  of  sheep  ?  Let  us  ride  up  to  the 
farm-house  and  make  inquiries  for  our  friends  of 
Philadelphia.  You  know  they  bade  us  keep  an  eye 
out  for  them,  among  the  wool-growers." 

"Good!  as  far  as  it  goes,  Charley;  but  an  inquiry 
as  to  sheep  may  not  win  for  us  an  invitation  for  a 
Sunday's  tarry." 

"Let  me  alone  for  that;  these  Western  farmers  are 
whole-souled,  noble  men, — touch  them  in  the  right 
spot,  and  they  are  at  home  with  you  at  once.  Tell 
them  straight  out  you  don't  like  towns  and  cities,  are 
out  on  a  journey  West,  to  ruralize,  and  would  like  to 
make  yourself  at  home  a  day  or  two,  and,  my  word 
for  it,  you  '11  find  yourself  one  of  the  family  for  as 
many  days  or  weeks  as  you  please." 

"  Yes,  and  find  yourself  ten  miles  from  the  'Belle  of 
the  Forest/ -with,  nothing  to  repay  you  for  your  rashness 
but  the  company  of  a  man,  who  will  bore  you  to  death 
about  his  crop,  chew  tobacco  by  the  handful,  and  be- 
spatter the  porch-floor  for  a  yard  around,  whip  two  or 
three  white-headed  urchins  to  bed  before  sundown, 
and  be  yourself,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  invited  to  take 
a  hand  at  paring  apples  for  the  old  lady  to  string,  in 
which  employment  you  will  pass  the  long  evenings, 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  195 

and  be  made  acquainte<l  in  the  meantime  with  all  the 
village  gossip  and  neighborhood  scandal  for  miles 
around." 

"  Wliere  did  you  learn  so  thoroughly  the  minutiae 
of  a  Western  farm-hoiLse  visit,  pray?" 

"Oh!  from  the  newspapers;  you  know  our  Eastern 
travellei'S  are  fond  of  writing  of  Western  adventures. 
But  see  here,"  and  his  horse  was  brought  up  so  short, 
that  he  rearetl  upon  his  haunches.  "Here  away,  into 
the  dark  forest,  has  sped  our  beauty.  Do  you  not  see 
the  tracks  of  her  steed,  as  she  turned  here  into  the 
wood?" 

The  path  which  had  nearly  been  passed  ere  dis- 
covered, turned  almost  at  right  angles  with  the  road, 
and  was  screened  by  a  clump  of  tall  pawpaws,  which 
interlaced  their  branches  overhead.  It  led  off  into  a 
dense  forest,  dropping  back  from  the  river  to  the  hill, 
at  the  foot  of  which  ran  a  bubbling,  fretting  little 
brook,  that  came  dancing  down,  now  running  over 
pebbly  bars,  now  hiding  away  among  the  brush,  and 
then  foaming  and  dashing  past  the  little  rocky  falls, 
that  here  and  there  let  it  drop  a  few  feet  at  a  time, 
until  it  reached  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  mingled 
its  clear  waters  with  the  silvery  stream. 

Up  this  bridle-path,  overhung  with  wild  grape- 
vines, had  the  mysterious  lady  of  the  black  plume 
evidently  gone.  "Westward  ho!  who  Ml  follow?" 
shouted  Lincoln  to  his  companion,  who  had  now  shot 
several  yards  ahead,  as  he  turned  his  horse  into  the 
path,  and  dashed  off  at  a  rapid  pace. 

"Hang  the  fellow!"  exclaimed  Walters.     "He  is 


196  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

perfectly  beside  himself,  with  that  fast  young  lady. 
However,  I  may  as  well  follow;"  and  wheeling  round, 
he  soon  came  up  with  the  determined  pursuer. 

They  journeyed  on,  as  nearly  together  as  possible, 
chatting  gayly  of  their  adventure,  and  the  unrivalled 
beauty  of  the  forest-path,  which  was  almost  as  dark, 
with  its  interlocked  trees  and  running  vines,  as  if  it 
were  closely  roofed  over;  crossing  and  recrossing  the 
little  brook,  till  at  last,  after  a  ride  of  a  mile  or  two, 
they  emerged  suddenly  upon  a  clearing  of  about  an 
acre.  The  brook  in  front  of  the  clearing  leaped  down 
a  pretty  waterfall  of  some  four  or  five  feet,  and  then 
circled  round  a  tiny  garden,  made  almost  an  island, 
amid  the  forest.  In  the  centre  of  this  garden,  hem- 
med in  by  a  rude  bush-fenoe,  stood  a  still  ruder  log- 
cabin,  so  completely  covered  with  and  held  together 
by  a  wild  mountain  creeper,  that  one  might  have 
fancied  it  of  marble,  as  its  whitewashed  walls  glis- 
tened here  and  there  through  the  green.  The  bush- 
fence  about  it  was  completely  covered  by  a  drapery 
of  sweetbrier,  bitter-sweet,  and  grape-vines.  The 
golden  bells  of  the  bitter-sweet, — the  scarlet  pods  of 
the  sweetbrier,  contrasting  with  the  rich  clusters  of 
wild  grapes  still  ripening  in  the  early  frost,  all  blending 
together,  formed  a  picturesque  hedge,  which  answered 
a  threefold  purpose,  as  a  fence,  an  ornament,  and  a 
protection  to  the  cottage  from  the  bleak  wands  which 
swept  down  the  valley  in  the  winter  days.  The  sun 
was  sinking  low;  but  just  where  it  went  down  behind 
the  hill,  and  where  a  deep  ravine  parted  the  earth,  the 
tall  forest-trees  had  been  cut  away,  and  let  the  glow 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  197 

of  departing  day  fall  full  upon  the  garden.  It  M'as 
not  laid  out  after  an  elaborate  plan,  yet  it  was  full  to 
the  brim  of  beauty  and  use,  and  its  very  want  of 
exactness  and  style  rendered  it  attractive;  its  walks 
without  a  weed;  its  borders  of  violets,  pinks,  and 
primroses;  its  varied  brightness  in  its  rich  profusion 
of  autumn  flowers;  its  vines,  its  rustic  arbors,  and,  not 
the  least,  its  well  cultured  vegetables,  made  it  a  thing 
to  be  looked  at  again  and  again  with  admiration. 
The  young  men  involuntarily  reined  in  their  horses, 
and  stood  still,  in  wonder  and  amazement  at  the  un- 
expected vision,  as  it  lay  there  glowing  in  brightness ; 
the  sun  falling  upon  it,  through  the  break  in  the  hill, 
gave  it  warmth  and  cheerfulness  for  nearly  an  hour 
after  the  rest  of  the  valley  fell  into  the  shade. 

"Upon  my  word,  Walters,"  exclaimed  Lincoln,  in 
a  low  voice,  as  the  horses  stood  side  by  side,  "we  are 
in  luck  this  afternoon ;  this  is  worth  going  ten  miles 
to  see." 

"  Aye,  and  more  too,"  answered  the  other,  dropping 
his  voice  still  lower,  and  looking  over  the  hedge  to 
the  other  side  of  the  garden.  "  For  if  I  mistake  not, 
there  is  the  'lady  of  the  black  plume.'" 

A?  the  words  left  his  lips,  the  lady  in  question 
emerged  from  a  grape-vine  arbor  made  of  rude  poles, 
with  her  hands  full  of  rich  clusters  of  grapes,  followed 
by  an  aged  woman.  The  latter  was  of  medium  size, 
with  a  face  full,  round,  and  rosy  as  sixteen ;  but  the 
snow-white  hair  upon  the  brow,  and  the  deep  lines 
upon  the  face,  told  the  story  of  her  years. 

The  pair  did  not  discover  the  strangers  on  horse- 
17* 


198  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;    OR, 

back,  and  kept  on  their  chat  as  they  neared  the  house, 
and  sat  down  on  a  bench  under  the  protecting  shade 
of  a  fine  apple-tree,  that  stood  in  full  bearing  before 
the  door. 

"Now,  grandma,"  said  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young 
lady,  "  you  must  lend  me  one  of  the  little  straw  bas- 
kets that  you  braid;  they  are  just  the  thing  to  lay  my 
grapes  in,  and  I  can  hang  it  on  the  horn  of  my  saddle, 
and  take  them  home  safely  to  father  and  mother." 

"  And  sure  I  '11  do  that  same  for  ye,  darlint.  There 's 
niver  a  basket  in  the  cabin,  but  ye  should  be  as  wel- 
come till  it  as  the  sunshine  to  the  corn  in  a  cold  June 
morning." 

And  the  old  lady  entered  the  cottage  and  brought 
out  a  straw  basket,  made  by  hand,  and  neatly  stained 
with  barks  and  berries. 

"Oh!  not  that  one,  grandmother;  that  is  your  very 
prettiest.  Let  me  have  one  that  is  older  and  plainer; 
one  that  you  have  not  taken  so  much  pains  with." 

"And  should  n't  I  be  bringing  out  my  best?  for  sure 
the  best  is  not  good  enough  for  the  likes  of  ye ;  for 
it's  yeself  that  saved  my  AVilly  from  the  dead  ruin 
that  was  coming  upon  him,  and  turned  the  black  pur- 
gatory that  was  yawning  upon  me,  till  a  blessed  heaven 
upon  earth; — and  God's  blessing  presarve  ye  for  that 
same,  to  the  longest  day  of  your  life." 

"Oh!  it  was  not  I  grandmother,  that  saved  Willy; 
you  must  thank  the  great  God  above,  for  that." 

"And  true  for  ye,  I  do.  There's  no  hour  of  the 
day  goes  by,  but  I  'm  muttering  the  prayers  to  Him. 
But  sure  it  was  yeself  that  he  set  to  the  work.     Och! 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  199 

Miss  Elsie,  darlint,  it  was  many  a  lang,  lang  night, 
I  lay  here  in  my  bed,  twenty  years  gone,  and  heard 
the  *  Old  Still-House '  screeching  and  groaning,  down 
there  in  the  valley,  and  its  voice  went  through  my 
heart  like  a  sharp  knife,  for  I  knew  he  was  there ; 
and  then  I  would  go  in  and  hear  poor  Betty  a  sob- 
bing and  groaning  in  her  bed,  all  for  him ;  but 
they  're  gone  now.  Oh !  darlint,  it  is  hard,  when 
them  we  love  best  takes  to  bad  ways ;  and  sure  I  'd 
none  then  to  love  but  the  two  that  I  brought  over 
the  salt  seas  wid  me." 

"Are  Willy  and  Jenny  all  you  have  left?"  said 
the  young  lady,  endeavoring  to  change  the  current 
of  the  old  woman's  thought. 

"It's  the  truth  ye 're  spaking,  my  sweet  lady. 
They  're  all  that 's  left  me  here ;  but  I  've  a  company 
of  them  in  the  bright  heaven  above.  But  as  I  was 
saying,  darlint,  —  Betty  used  to  lie  rolling  in  her 
bed,  and  Willy  down  at  the  holler,  and  the  little  ones 
without  bread,  mores  of  times  without  shoes  and 
stockings  till  their  feet,  and  he  a-drinking.  Och! 
Miss  Elsie,  but  ye  made  Better  Days  for  us  all,  when 
ye  put  out  that  fire,  and  poured  that  devil's-breath 
into  the  creek.  True  for  ye's,  my  leddy,  if  there 's  a 
better  seat  in  heaven  than  the  rest,  it'll  be  God's 
will  ye  should  fill  that  same,  for  giving  the  sunshine 
of  life  and  peace  back  to  throubled  hearts,  here  on 
earth." 

"  I  see  you  keep  the  spinning-wheel  going,  grand- 
ma ;  you  spin  your  day's  work  these  plcasjuit  autumn 
days."     And  again  Elsie  tried  a  new  theme. 


200  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

"  Oh  !  yes !  as  long  as  the  thread  of  life  is  spared 
me,  1  '11  be  drawing  the  flax  from  the  distaff;  if  all 
the  cuts  I  have  rolled  and  lopped  since  my  head  was 
white  as  the  blaze  on  the  rock,  were  linked  thegither, 
it  wad  make  a  rope  that  would  swing  me  back,  all 
the  long  way  across  the  ocean  to  the  banks  of  Bally 
Shannon.  Ten  childer,  Miss  Elsie,  twice  ten  grand- 
ehilder;  and  poor  ould  granny  has  outlived  them  all. 
I  have  none  left  me  now  but  Willy  and  Jenny;" 
and  the  old  lady  bent  her  white  head,  and  wiped  the 
fast-rolling  tears  upon  her  checked  linen  apron ;  and 
then,  as  if  ashamed  of  even  the  appearance  of  com- 
plaint, she  started  up,  with  a  glow  of  cheerfulness 
upon  her  face. 

"  It 's  your  pardon  I  should  be  asking,  shure,  for 
giving  way ;  for  have  n't  you  scattered  all  the  throubles 
and  let  down  the  sunlight  into  my  heart;  just  as 
Willy's  axe  let  the  sunset  thro'  the  ould  forest  there, 
to  cheer  me  in  my  bit  of  a  garden. 

And  stooping,  the  old  woman  filled  her  basket  with 
grapes,  all  the  while  talking  garrulously  of  the  past 
in  her  own  graphic  style,  between  the  Irish  and  the 
Western  dialect.  The  young  men  were  in  close  prox- 
imity to  the  speakers,  and  could  see  and  hear  them, 
but,  unless  the  pair  turned  directly  round,  could  not 
be  seen ;  and  they  now  cast  about  them,  by  signs  and 
winks,  for  a  place  of  retreat. 

Two  or  three  cows  straying  leisurely  homeward, 
enabled  them  to  turn  their  horses  without  being  heard 
into  the  shade  of  a  great  tulip-tree,  that  overhung  the 
waterfall,  just  in  time  to  escape  the  notice  of  Elsie  as 
she  left  the  cottage. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  201 

"  No,  no,  grandmother,  you  must  not  come  down 
the  path  to-night,  to  see  me  mount  Barney, — you 
will  be  tired.  There!  not  another  bunch  in  that 
basket ;  you  must  save  them  for  yourself  and  Jenny, 
in  the  winter.  Come,  Clo,"  she  added,  again  snap- 
ping her  finger  to  her  greyhound. 

"  Indade,  indade,  Miss  Elsie,  you  must  let  me  see 
ye  spring  into  your  saddle,  for  my  ould  eyes  have 
never  seen  the  likes  since  I  left  swate  Ireland.  Och  ! 
but  the  fine  leddies  that  usen  to  come  over  from 
*  merrie  England,'  (the  quality,  you  know,)  to  go  a- 
hawking  and  hunting  over  the  old  manor,  could  do 
the  likes ;  but  it  was  never  a  one  of  them,  but  wad 
'a'  hid  the  light  of  her  eyes  in  yer  presence." 

"Oh!  grandmother,  you  flatter  me — comparing 
me  to  the  grand  lords  and  ladies  of  noble  blood." 

"  Niver  a  bit,  niver  a  bit,  Elsie,  darlint ;  it 's  no 
blarney  to  be  calling  ye  the  noblest  of  them  all." 

And  the  old  woman  leaned  over  the  stile,  and 
clapped  her  Avrinkled  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight, 
as  the  maiden  again  sprang  into  her  saddle,  and  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand  to  the  kind  old  creature  she  was 
leaving,  bounded  out  of  sight,  down  the  winding 
path. 

The  gentlemen  imme<liatcly  left  their  cover,  and 
prepared  to  follow ;  but  seeing  granny  Alison  still  at 
the  stile,  they  turned  to  her  and  asked  the  favor  of 
a  few  grapes. 

"As  many  as  ye  likes,  as  many  as  ye  likes;  pro- 
viden  ye  don't  be  tearing  the  vines,  which  would  anger 


202  ELSIE   MA  GOO N;    O R, 

the  young  lady  mightily,  for  it 's  a  big  spot  in  her 
heart  the  place  holds,  to  be  sure." 

"And  who  may  that  young  lady  be?"  asked 
Lincoln. 

"  And  sure  it 's  only  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  wad 
be  asking  after  the  name  of  Elsie  Magoon,  the  angel 
next  to  Mary  Mother  hersilf,  in  kindness  to  the  poor 
and  needy." 

"  Indeed !  mother,  that  is  high  praise.  Does  she 
live  here  about  ?  " 

"  Only  over  the  brook  there  away,  where  ye  see 
the  fine  white  house  upon  the  hill.  And  but  for  her 
mother  before  her,  there  would  never  be  a  better  crea- 
ture than  she  in  the  world." 

"  May  we  ask  what  she  does  that  is  so  wonderful  ?" 

"And  ye  may  thin ;  for  my  ould  tongue  will  niver 
be  weary  waggin  her  praise  while  I  stay.  Who  was 
it  but  her  that  stopped  the  croaking  of  that  old 
'Still-house,' — who  but  her  and  her  mother,  who 
are  like  the  blessed  Trinity,  one  and  the  same — that 
led  ould  Truman  to  be  sober, — who  but  her  found 
places  for  Tony  O'Brien's  orphans, — who  but  her 
that  got  up  Sunday  schools,  and  temperance-meetings  ? 
Lord  love  you,  gintlemen,  it's  mysilf  that  would  walk 
to  the  village  in  a  Januaiy  night,  to  hear  her  plading 
with  the  young  men  to  let  the  bottles  alone.  Was  n't 
it  the  black  throuble  the  people  were  all  in,  her  father 
none  the  best  of  them, — and  has  n't  she  let  the  bright 
day  in  upon  us  all  ?  Och  !  it's  not  a  callant  you  can 
meet  in  ten  miles  roun',  but  will  tell  of  Elsie,  the 
darlint,  who  has  made  for  us  all  the '  better  days.' " 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  203 

The  gentlemen  received  the  grapes,  and  offered  her 
money,  which  she  indignantly  refused,  asserting  that 
as  long  as  she  got  freely,  she  would  give  freely  to  any 
one  that  would  ask  her  "  dacently."  With  a  prom- 
ise to  call  again,  they  followed  the  path  the  maiden 
had  taken,  and  after  a  ride  of  another  half  mile, 
came  again  into  the  main  road,  just  by  the  fine  avenue 
of  sugar-maples,  that  led  up  from  the  gate  under  the 
willows  to  the  noble  farm-house  once  owned  by 
Richard  Magoon. 

We  say  once ;  for  although  another  five  years  have 
flitted  by,  since  Elsie  became  the  owner  of  the  fine 
old  farm,  — although  the  debts  are  paid,  and  Richard 
is  again  a  sober,  noble-hearted  man, — he  has  never 
consented  to  become  the  owner,  or  to  hold  the  deed 
of  the  farm. 

From  the  time  that  Richard  Magoon  had  lain  so 
long  prostrate  with  fever  he  had  never  been  well. 
Year  after  year  wore  on,  and  still  he  was  weak  and 
tremulous,  often  entirely  prostrate  from  diseases  re- 
sulting from  his  long-continued  excesses.  Hence  he 
felt  no  disposition  to  take  from  his  wife  or  daughter 
the  power  of  controlling  the  estate,  in  case  a  sudden 
death  or  emergency  should  carry  him  off.  Yet  his 
counsel  had  always  been  asked,  and  his  wish  and 
will  were  sacred.  Elsie  had  grown  to  be  a  staff  to 
him  in  his  old  age ;  and  the  quiet  young  girl,  who 
up  to  the  age  of  twenty  had  been  known  only  as  a 
modest  maiden,  at  her  post  of  duty  in  the  household, 
had  become  to  the  whole  neighborhood  a  model  of 


204  ELSIE    M AGO  ON. 

strength  and  wisdom,  walking  side  by  side  with  her 
mother  in  an  earnest  and  useful  life. 

As  the  two  young  men  rode  leisurely  up  to  the 
house  of  the  Magoons,  Eichard  was  in  the  lane, 
driving  a  flock  of  sheep  to  their  shelter  for  the  night. 
As  Lincoln  attempted  to  force  his  horse  through  the 
flock,  the  foremost  of  them  commenced  leaping  the 
shadow  of  an  oak  that  lay  across  the  road.  The 
horse  took  fright,  and  wheeling  suddenly,  became 
unmanageable.  Richard  sprang  forward  and  caught 
him  by  the  bridle.  A  conversation  ensued,  and 
ended  in  an  invitation  to  enter,  wliich  was  gladly 
accepted. 

Tea  was  waiting  for  Elsie  and  Richard,  and  the 
strangers  were  cordially  invited  to  partake. 

"  We  have  plenty,  my  friends,  such  as  it  is,  in  our 
farmer's  way; — don't  mention  your  horses. — Jack, 
put  away  the  gentlemen's  ponies,  rub  them  down 
well,  and  give  them  plenty.  Make  yourself  at  home, 
Mr.  —  what  shall  I  call  you?" 

"Mr.  "Walters,  — Mr.  Lincoln." 

"My  wife,  Mrs.  Magoon, — Elsie,  my  daughter, — 
Alice,  Mary,  —  George, — all  Magoons.  Gentlemen, 
be  seated ;  what  might  have  been  a  misfortune  to  you, 
may  be  a  pleasant  piece  of  good-fortune  to  us  all.'^ 

And  so,  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  the  young 
men  were  made  welcome. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

AH,  gentle  reader !  Don't  think  we  are  going  to 
plunge  you  into  a  love-story,  full,  to  the  end  of 
the  last  page,  of  trials  and  perplexities,  odd  happen- 
ings, and  the  most  curious  things  coming  to  pass  just 
at  the  right  instant,  because  we  have  introduced  two 
city  gents  to  our  beautiful  girls :  for  we  shall  do  no 
such  thing ;  we  don't  like  stories  all  love,  a  bit  better 
than  we  should  like  a  dinner  all  preserves  and  cream. 

Love,  to  be  worth  having  at  all,  should  come  in 
the  natural  way,  on  common-sense  principles,  and 
made  firm  as  the  everlasting  hills,  on  some  substan- 
tial basis — such  as  goodness  and  usefulness — not 
upon  the  set  of  a  plume,  or  the  shape  of  a  bust ;  and 
though  we  have  let  our  young  gentlemen  follow  the 
dashing  lady  to  her  house,  through  the  wild  paths  of 
the  green-wood,  we  have  no  more  idea  of  dashing 
Albert  Lincoln  head  and  ears  into  a  love  scrape  than 
we  have  of  giving  Charley  Walters  a  douse  in  the 
same  subtle  fluid. 

"Falling  in  love!"  What  does  it  mean?  Do 
people  come  down,  tumble  headlong  into  a  vat  or 
pool,  from  which  they  have  to  be  drawn,  heels  fore- 
most, to  save  their  souls  and  bodies  ?  Wish  somebody 
would  tell  us,  why  to  be  infused  with  a  tender  and 
ennobling  passion,  should  be  called   "  falling "  into 

18  ( 205 ) 


996  ELSIE   MAG  O  OX;    OE, 

the  thh^.  Bat  nobodr  will  tell  os.  so  Idt  as  follow 
tibe  fiNrtnnes  of  oar  new-found  firiends. 

Happy  thejr  were  to  re*^'^-  "  i  ready  to  accept 
idle  OQidial  invitation  of  K:  ^  t.^oon  ;  and  sokhi 

foond  thexnsdTi^  enjojing  aiiinite   zest,  the 

whoksonn^  hcMoaeHOBade  lnu..^..-  •  f  Mrs.  Magioon's 
teartable. 

She  was  as  natoralV  ^le 

was  ualuialbr  a  noble,  a^     .  "  : 

and  tiboa^  ho*  whole  life  h^ 

to  ho- neigfabois  and  the  world,  she  had  never  dreamed 
in  her  ^uIosc^Jit,  that  ^le  mast  therdme  desert  airf 
of  those  inlcredai^  and  hobr  cares  which  beoranelifi^a 
lidiest  Ueaoi^  to  the  trne  hearL 

''Toil  are  strangeis  in  ihis  neig^ibadbood,  I  thinly 
genflemeii?''  asbed  fiichard. 

'^  We  anivcd  at  Soiithirille  this  momii^  ar,  and 
as  we  had  badness  tibat  would  delun  nsafewd^s, 
we  were  tijii^  to  pass  time  as  pleagqinfly  as  poaaihle^ 
reoMinoaixin^  in  joar  pleasant  vall^,  and  were  oot 
<m  oar  fiist  trip  of  observaticm. 

''And  howdojoa  like  us?"  asked  Bidiard,in  his 
hlont  waj. 

"  Yoar  &nns  are  ^lendid,  and  I  own  I  am  sor- 
piised  at  Idie  progress  and  oaltivatiim  I  see  all  aboofc 


"We  were  new  and  wild  thirty  jeus  a^a,  gonde- 
men,  when  I  filled  with  m j  own  hand  1^  SxsA  tree 
in  those  broad  meadows  below.  Bat  I  dare  aaj  we 
have  made  scMne  improvement  ainoe  then.'* 

"  We  have  alwi^  heard  the  West  i^okea  of  as  a 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  207 

new  country,"  said  Walters,  "  I  was  not  prepared  to 
find  it  so  nearly  on  a  level  with  good  old  New  Eng- 
land." 

"  The  West,"  answered  Alice,  with  a  silvery  laugh, 
"  the  West  is  '  over  the  hills,  and  far  away ; '  —  xre  are 
*way  down  EasV — here,  on  the  Wahoo.  Smithville 
is  only  an  offshoot  of  Boston,  and  should  be  as  near 
like  it  as  the  son  is  to  the  father.  It  is  only  when 
you  get  out  on  the  plains,  that  you  find  the  natives." 

So  went  on  the  pleasant  chat  until  the  meal  ended ; 
the  young  ladies  led  the  way  to  the  farm-house  parlor, 
which  was  brilliantly  lighted,  disclosing  an  open 
piano  in  the  corner,  some  fine  old  pictures  upon  the 
wall,  a  well-filled  book-case,  and  a  brilliant  carpet, 
of  home-made  stripes,  upon  the  floor.  It  was  a  cool 
September  evening,  and  the  motherly  care  of  Mrs. 
Magoon  had  laid  a  bright  fire  upon  the  ample  hearth- 
stone, that  scattered  the  dampness,  and  made  the  room 
still  more  inviting  and  cheerful.  Elsie  had  thrown 
ofi"  her  travelling  dress,  and  arrayed  herself  in  a  plain 
brown  silk,  with  a  small  white  band,  pinned  at  the 
throat.  Her  rich  auburn  hair  hung  in  wavy  ringlets 
around  her  rosy,  healthful  face,  and  her  dark-blue 
eyes  glowed  in  the  fire-light  more  lustrously  blue 
than  usual.  Lincoln  thought  her  beautiful ;  but  the 
fashionable  world  would  not  have  given  the  Belle 
of  the  Forest,  praise.  It  might  even  have  denounced 
her  as  masculine,  because  there  was  something  about 
her  so  self-reliant  and  strong. 

"  Masculine  ?  "  How  can  a  woman  be  masculine  ? 
Can  the  face  and  form  the  Creator  has  given  her,  be 


208  ELSIE   MA  GO  ON;    OR, 

anything  but  womanly  ?  Are  fine,  physical  propor- 
tions, health  and  strength,  to  be  noted  disgraceful? 
Are  features  that  bear  the  stamp  of  a  great  soul  to 
be  derided,  because  they  are  those  of  a  woman? 
Shall  such  a  woman  be  called  masculine  f  —  as  if  to 
manhood  belonged  all  the  strength  and  glory  of  the 
human  race  ?  Oh !  captious,  sneering,  tyrannical 
world,  how  hast  thou  wronged  and  made  to  suffer 
the  truest  and  best  womanly  hearts.  The  taunt  of 
masculinity  has  subdued  many  a  girlish  genius,  and 
made  her  sink  into  listless  indolence,  rather  than 
brave  the  odium  of  being  thought  mannish,  while 
she  possessed  the  power  of  performing  works  that 
would  do  honor  to  the  sterner  sex. 

Alice,  the  second  sister,  was  beautiful  at  first  sight, 
but  so  soft  and  tender  in  her  expression  of  form  and 
face  as  never  to  jeopardize  her  reputation.  And  yet 
she  was  strong  and  brave  in  her  own  way.  Mary 
was  a  very  fairy, — with  her  soft  blue  eyes  and  golden 
hair,  and  her  form  light  and  agile  as  a  sylph.  One 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  hers  was  not  a  heroic  nature, 
that  she  was  not  even  self-sustaining,  and  needed 
the  protecting  care  of  a  stronger  hand  and  heart. 

Such  were  the  three  sisters  as  they  sat  before  that 
pleasant  evening  fire  in  the  old  farm-house,  —  each 
fitted  to  fill  a  distinct  mission  in  life,  —  neither 
promising  the  power  or  capability  of  filling  the  place 
of  the  other. 

Elsie's  mind  took  in  at  a  glance  the  far-off  as  well 
as  the  near.  She  knew  in  the  spring  time  the  needs 
of  the  harvest,  and  read  in  the  necessities  of  to-day 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  209 

the  possibilities  of  to-morrow,  of  the  next  year,  of 
fifty  years  to  come.  Strong-hearted  and  strong- 
handed,  she  yet  bore  within  herself  elements  of  the 
tenderest  and  kindliest  emotions.  She  lovetl  to  plant 
the  rose-tree,  to  prune  and  nurture  it  into  beauty, 
and  to  drink  in  its  dewy  fragrance ;  to  bend  over  the 
wild  violets  in  the  spring  time;  to  hunt  the  forget- 
me-nots  in  the  meadow,  and  listen  to  the  love  carol 
of  the  wild  bird.  She  would  liave  loved,  as  other 
young  girls  do,  if  one  had  ever  met  her  capable  of 
concentrating  the  sunlight  of  her  soul  upon  himself. 
But  now  those  rays  fell  like  the  morning  sunbeams 
on  all  the  creatures  of  her  Father's  love  and  mercy. 
She  knew,  too,  that  strong  hearts  and  hands  were 
needed  among  women,  as  well  as  men,  in  the  thorough- 
fares of  life,  and  already  had  she  seen  and  felt  that 
she  was  fitted  for  her  place.  She  delighted  in  culti- 
vating human  souls ;  even  as  she  would  take  the  wild 
rose  from  the  forest  and  graft  upon  its  stem  the  lux- 
uriance and  fragrance  of  the  cultivated  flower;  so 
would  she  take  the  heart,  bedded  in  the  shadows  of 
ignorance,  superstition,  or  vice,  and  place  it  in  the 
genial  soil  of  truth,  where  the  dews  and  showers  of 
love,  the  light  of  reason  and  thought,  might  warm 
and  freshen  it  into  a  flower  of  beauty,  for  society  and 
for  God.  Was  this  masculine  ?  Was  she  less  a  woman 
for  all  this  noble  thought  and  earnest  action  ?  Less 
a  woman,  because  she  had  not  made  self  the  motive 
power  of  all  her  actions,  preferring  that  easy  life 
which  most  women  lead,  to  the  work  of  making  hun- 
dreds wiser  and  better  for  all  life's  duties,  through 
18* 


210  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;     OR, 

her  ministrations?  Was  she  less  a  housekeeper, 
because  she  was  capable  of  being  more  than  one? 
Was  it  wrong  for  her  not  to  become  a  wife,  while  she 
felt  herself  uncalled  to  that  post  of  duty, —  while  she 
saw  clearly  that  a  greater  good  could  be  accomplished 
by  her,  with  untied  hands,  and  untouched  heart? 
Should  she  be  branded  an  old  maid,  because  twenty- 
five  summers  had  kept  the  roses  fresh  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  the  gossips  could  point  to  no  grave  that 
held  a  buried  love ;  to  no  man,  who,  in  his  fickleness 
or  pride,  had  broken  her  heart?  Because  she  was 
not  willing,  like  most  women  about  her,  to  become  a 
fixture  in  some  household,  and  walk  the  same  round 
of  duty  in  contentment  till  the  gray  hair  should  silver 
her  brow,  and  the  grave  claim  its  own?  Alice — 
Mary  —  and  a  thousand  others,  were  fitted  for  that 
calm,  loving  work.  Were  there  not  enough  such  as 
these,  who  had  no  taste  for  the  duties  so  grand  to 
her,  that  the  world  could  not  spare  one,  for  the  mis- 
sion which  she  felt  called  to  fill  ?. 

Oh  !  World,  World,  wilt  thou  never  learn  that  all 
women  were  not  made  for  the  same  duties, — as  are 
not  all  men  ? 

But  while  we  moralize,  the  new  acquaintances  chat 
on. 

"  We  are  to  have  a  little  gathering  of  friends  and 
neighbors  this  evening,  gentlemen,  and  shall  be  truly 
glad  to  have  you  among  our  circle,  if  not  engaged  to 
return  to  Smithville,"  said  Elsie. 

"  We  have  no  engagements,  Miss  Magoon,"  replied 
Lincoln,  rising  as  if  to  depart,  "  but  will  not  crowd 
ourselves  upon  your  hospitalities." 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  211 

"Not  going?"  said  Richard,  entering  at  the  mo- 
ment; "by  no  means;  you  are  welcome  till  Monday  ; 
and,  honestly,  I  believe  Ave  can  make  you  as  comfort- 
able as  they  can  down  at  the  'White  Horse';  your 
ponies  shall  be  returned  to  their  stable ;  so  make  your- 
selves contented." 

"  But  your  daughters  are  expecting  friends,"  inter- 
posed Walters. 

"  Only  a  little  gathering — a  society — a  something, 
I  hardly  know  what.  In  old  times  we  had  chopping- 
bees,  log-rollings,  squirrel-hunts,  spinning-bees,  apple- 
cuttings,  husking-frolics,  and  quiltings,  to  bring  the 
folks  together  once  in  a  while,  to  keep  up  neighbor- 
hood sociability,  and  the  boys  and  girls  out  of  mis- 
chief. But  since  the  introduction  of  parlors,  pictures, 
and  pianos,  we  have  to  plan  something  better." 

"  No ;  not  better,  dear  father,  than  those  were  in 
their  time ;  only,  as  the  editors  would  say,  better  suited 
to  the  '  spirit  of  the  age,' "  said  Elsie,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  that  will  do.  So  then  our  young  people 
have  a  'society  for  improvement,'  which  meets  every 
Saturday  night,  when  the  week's  labor  is  done,  at 
the  house  of  its  members,  where  we  all  join,  old  and 
young,  in  trying  to  do  each  other  good,  and  to  make 
each  other  happy." 

"A  grand  idea,"  said  Lincoln,  trying  to  look 
pleased,  while  at  heart  he  was  secretly  vexed  at  the 
thought  of  a  '  society  for  improvement '  on  the  banks 
of  the  Wahoo,  instead  of  a  pleasant  evening  with  the 
interesting  young  ladies  of  the  farm-house 

"  Thauk  you,  thank  you,  daughter,"  said  the  father, 


212  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

as  Elsie  placed  his  favorite  easy-chair  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and  seated  him  in  it. 

"  There,  father  dear,  is  your  place ;  you  know  you 
are  to  be  our  monitor  this  evening." 

"  Ah !  true ;  I  had  forgotten  I  held  that  post  of 
honor." 

"We  shall  have  a  large  party  this  evening,  I  fancy; 
I  hear  merry  voices  now  in  the  avenue.  Mr.  Lincoln 
and  Mr.  Walters  will  excuse  us  while  we  meet  and  wel- 
come our  guests  j "  and  Elsie  and  Mary  left  the  room, 
while  Alice  held  Walters  listening  to  her  merry  jokes. 

"  I  like  to  see  the  old  and  young  mingling  together 
without  restraint,"  said  Richard,  addressing  Lincoln. 
"  I  believe  it  the  greatest  safeguard  against  vice.  The 
old  people  do  a  twofold  work  by  joining  in  the  sports 
of  their  children — they  keep  their  own  souls  full  of 
freshness  and  charity,  while  they  curb  the  exuberance 
of  animal  life  in  the  young,  which,  when  left  to  itself, 
is  apt  to  carry  them  too  far.  I  think  the  cold,  austere 
religions  of  this  country  have  done  great  evil,  by 
denying  to  their  followers  the  right,  to  enjoy  a  proper 
degree  of  mirth,  thus  throwing  most  of  the  reasonable 
amusements  of  life  into  the  hands  of  those  who  have 
no  religion  at  all.  Or  rather,  I  should  say,  a  wrong 
theology  has  done  this ;  for  theology  and  religion  are 
very  different  things.  Some  of  the  best  and  wisest 
people  I  ever  knew,  and  who  lived  nearest  to  the 
true  and  undefiled  religion  of  the  olden  time,  were 
condemned  by  the  Christian  world  as  infidels,  because 
they  acknowledged  no  theological  creed.  And  that 
theology  that  cannot  discern  between  the  use  and  abuse 
of  healthful  and   enlivening  amusement,  does  not 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  213 

deserve  the  name  of  religion ;  it  is  but  an  offshoot 
of  that  old  Pagan  superstition  which  worshipped  God 
through  self-abnegation,  suffering,  and  sorrow ;  failing 
to  read  aright  the  great  book  of  nature,  which  every- 
where lies  open  to  their  view,  with  its  lessons  of  cheer- 
fulness and  love." 

The  room  was  now  rapidly  filling  with  guests ;  fifty 
or  sixty  were  soon  assembled,  and  friendly  greetings, 
jokes  and  mirth  filled  up  the  first  half  hour,  then  a 
selected  choir  sang,  with  great  expression,  several 
English  and  Scotch  ballads,  accompanied  by  Mary 
and  Alice  on  the  piano,  while  a  young  man  from  the 
town  played  his  violin  in  concert. 

Our  city  beaux  exchanged  bewildered  looks  as  they 
saw  the  white  fingers  of  the  country  maidens  fly  over 
the  keys,  and  listened  to  the  thrilling  sounds  of  song 
from  Elsie  and  her  sister. 

A  question  for  discussion  was  next  introduced,  and 
each  in  his  own  familiar  way  expressed  an  opinion 
upon  it.  Frequent  bursts  of  applause,  or  quiet  mer- 
riment, gave  token  of  the  wit  and  originality  of  the 
talkers ;  and  the  young  ladies  found  it  not  difficult 
to  puzzle  those  who  had  spent  years  in  lyceums  and 
debates.  After  an  hour  of  this  free  and  easy  chat- 
ting, the  old  topic  was  dismissed,  and  a  new  proposed 
for  the  next  meeting. 

And  then  came  a  discussion  over  apples,  pears,  and 
grapes,  from  the  garden  and  orchard  of  the  farmer — 
no  one  refusing  to  take  part  in  this — when  the  meet- 
ing again  composed  itself  to  listen  to  a  tale,  from  the 
talented  Miss  L ,  who  had  been  appointed  to  pre- 
pare an  original  story,  poem,  or  essay,  for  the  evening. 


M 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

ISS  L was  the  teacher  of  the  Smithville 

Female  Semiuary — a  lady  of  fine  educational 
attainments,  and  though  past  the  heyday  of  youth, 
was  neither  a  garrulous  nor  disagreeable  "  old  maid." 

She  was  neither  tall  nor  slim,  precise  nor  prim,  as 
some  persons  would  have  us  believe  that  women  of  that 
condition  always  are.  Her  full  form,  round,  rosy  face, 
and  sparkling  black  eye,  were  significant  of  a  joyous 
spirit,  which  had  found  its  happiness  along  the  way- 
sides of  life,  as  naturally  as  the  sky-lark  finds  hers 
amid  the  clustering  clover  and  in  the  common  air. 

On  the  present  occasion  she  did  not  flush,  nor  fool- 
ishly excuse  herself  as  having  nothing  worth  while  to 
read,  but  took  her  chair  by  a  light  stand,  and  with  a 
clear,  musical  voice,  read  as  follows. 

THE   FIRST   STEAMBOAT    OX    THE    WATERS    OF    THE 
MUSKINGUM. 

It  happened  to  be  my  good  fortune,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  to  be  training  "  young  ideas  how  to  shoot," 
in  the  beautiful  little  town  of  ^larietta,  in  the  year 
1820.  Marietta,  you  all  know,  is  located  at  the 
junction  of  the  Muskingum  River  with  the  La  Belle 
Riviere,  of  the  old  French  settlers,  or,  in  plain  Eng- 
lish, the  beautiful  river  Ohio,  and  is  famous  for  two 

(214) 


THE    OLD    STILL-EOUSE.  215 

things.  First,  as  being  a  place  of  mounds,  covert- 
ways,  dykes,  ditches,  squares,  and  embankments,  or, 
as  familiarly  called,  "  ancient  works  and  fortifications," 
supposed  to  have  been  made  by  a  people  far  more 
cultivated  than  the  Indians  who  roamed  the  forest, 
when  the  oldest  civilized  inhabitant  first  pitched  his 
tent  in  the  beautiful  valley. 

Secondly,  it  was  famed  as  being  the  first  point  upon 
which  the  Ohio  Company  landed,  after  leaving  Pitts- 
burg, or  old  Fort  Du  Quesne,  at  the  head-waters  of 
navigation  ;  and  consequently,  the  first  settlement  of 
Ohio  was  made  at  this  same  town. 

To  me  it  was  famous  in  another  regard ;  that  the 
early  inhabitants,  unlike  most  Western  town-makers, 
had  been  too  sensible  to  crowd  themselves  uncomfort- 
ably ;  and  had  in  laying  out  theirs,  provided  a  good 
common,  wide  streets,  preserved  their '  ancient  works,' 
and  left  each  landholder  a  lot  large  enough  for  a 
garden  and  door-yard.  This  liberality  of  land  is 
often  a  matter  of  wonder  to  travellers  among  us ;  but 
I  suppose  our  grandsires  had  not  then  dreamed  of  a 
half-acre  lot  west  of  the  Alleghanies  ever  being  worth 
half  a  million ;  or  that  they  should  live  to  see  cities 
and  towns  strewn  in  grandeur  and  wealth,  to  the  very 
slopes  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

Ah,  it  was  a  delightful  winter,  that !  Every  day 
brought  to  me  new  treasures  of  history  from  the  early 
times  of  this  interesting  people.  I  lingered  many  a 
day  in  their  beautiful  cemetery,  where  slept  the  last 
earthly  remains  of  their  leader,  old  General  Rufus 
Putnam,  who  brought  his  gallant  band  so  bravely 


216  ELSIE  MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

through  the  wilderness,  and  stood  steadfastly  by  them 
through  the  varied  and  sore  trials  of  border  life. 

There,  too,  at  the  foot  of  a  great  mound,  reared  by 
the  hands  of  a  lost  race,  slept  old  Commodore  Abra- 
ham Whipple,  who,  as  his  epitaph  tells  us,  fired  the 
first  gun  of  the  Revolution  ;  and  performed  the  still 
bolder  feat  of  taking  the  first  ship,  or  barge,  down 
the  waters  of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  into  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico ;  a  daring  deed  in  those  days,  when  the 
Indian  hunting-grounds  lay  nearly  the  entire  distance 
on  either  side. 

Many  a  winter  evening  sped  away,  almost  unheed- 
ed, as  I  listened  to  the  tales  of  old  Judge  Cutler,  of 
the  valiant  deeds  of  those  valiant  men,  of  their  noble- 
ness and  courage ;  of  the  heroism  of  the  women,  their 
unshaken  faith  and  hope  through  the  seven  years' 
war,  and  their  garrison  life ;  tales  of  the  hunt,  and 
chase,  and  victory ;  of  the  savage  treachery  and 
bloody  massacre;  of  their  losses  and  crosses,  their 
hunger  and  toil,  and  their  triumph  at  last,  when 
they  arose  more  than  conquerors,  from  the  conflict  of 
years. 

There,  too,  I  heard  the  tale  of  the  Fairy  Isle, 
where  Blennerhasset  and  his  beautiful  wife  made 
their  Eden  home,  ere  a  wild  ambition  swept  over  it, 
and  left  it  all  blackness  and  ruin. 

These  stories  became  to  me  as  household  words. 
Would  that  I  could  tarry  to-night  to  give  a  worthy 
tribute  to  each.  From  the  Alleghanies  to  the  buffalo- 
beats  of  Nebraska,  every  native-born  AVestern  man 
and  woman  owes  these  old  settlers  a  debt  of  grati- 


TEE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  217 

tude  and  love,  for  teaching  the  world  how  strong  and 
brave  the  human  heart  can  be. 

But  the  one  great  topic  of  interest  at  the  time  of 
my  residence  among  the  people,  was  the  new  steam- 
boat building  at  the  river-side,  which  was  the  first 
experiment  of  the  kind  ever  tried  there.  Its  builder 
was  Capt.  John  Greene,  born  on  the  banks  of  the 
Muskingum,  who  had  long  followed  its  waters  as  a 
keel-boatman.  The  name  of  the  trim  little  craft  was 
the  Rufus  Putnam,  after  the  memorable  founder  of 
this  new  world. 

Many  were  the  prophecies  of  failure.  The  "old 
fogies "  of  that  day  were  as  genuine  antiques,  as  the 
same  class  of  fossils  of  the  present  day ;  and  shook 
their  heads  as  ominously  over  any  innovations  upon 
the  old  order.  But  for  all  their  glowering  looks  and 
dark  sayings,  Capt.  Greene  kept  on  the  even  tenor 
of  his  way,  and  accomplished  his  work.  As  the 
crowning  feat  of  his  temerity,  he  advertised  that  the 
"  Rufus  Putnam  "  would  make  a  trip  to  Zanesville, 
in  the  month  of  March,  and  take,  free  of  charge,  any 
of  the  old  settlers  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  People 
did  not  so  easily  leave  home  then  as  now ;  and  when 
the  time  came  there  were  no  more  to  accept  the  kind 
invitation,  than  could  be  accommodated  on  a  craft  of 
less  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  tons. 

A  steamboat  upon  the  winding  waters  of  the  Mus- 
kingum? It  was  impossible!  The  man  was  crazed !  He 
would  run  his  prow  into  the  crooked  banks,  he  would 
stave  her  on  a  snag,  get  aground  on  the  bars,  or  blow 
up,  as  had  the  "  Washington,"  a  few  yeais  before ! 

19 


SB  ELSIE   MA  GO  OS;    OB, 

Bat  C!i^.  G was  not  to  be  tamed  firom  his 

pnrpoee  bv  all  their  croaking.  He  had  walked  the 
dooked  stream  for  vears,  with  his  shoulder  to  the 
^"^tiiig  pole,  and  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  helm 
tibroD^  storm  and  dangers.  He  knew  it  thoroughly, 
and  he  had  no  fears.  So  when  the  spring  winds 
came,  softoiing  the  icy  chains,  and  setting  the  brooks 
and  rills  free;  bringing  down  the  gentle  showers, 
and  swdling  the  bads  of  the  backeye  and  red-bud, 
and  the  Muskingum  rose  half-banks  to  welcome  his 
enterprise, — he  announced  the  day  and  hour  of  his 
d^artore. 

The  fires  in  the  sugar  camps  were  not  yet  ex- 
tinguished, mat  had  the  swallows  and  bluebirds  beoi 
wooed  back  to  their  old  haunts,  by  the  green  bon^is 
of  the  willows ;  though  here  and  there  a  blue  violet 
was  peeping  to  see  if  the  icicles  were  all  gone,  and 
wild  aiiemonies  in  sonny  nooks  whispered  of  the 
"cood  time  coining." 

On  ihe  day  fixed,  a  loud-mouthed  cannon,  posted 
upon  her  prow,  told  the  people  for  miles  aroimd  that 
the  "  Putnam"  was  on  her  way,  and  would  call  sk 
their  do(»s  and  take  a  breathing-spell,  while  they  tied 
on  doaks  and  bonnes,  and  got  xeaAy  to  join  the 
joYial  party. 

In  a  long  boid  of  the  rivo",  six  miles  above 
Marietta,  called  "Rainbow,"  by  the  old  pioneers, 
fit>m  its  resemblance  to  an  ardi ;  on  the  inner  side 
of  the  carve,  smd  hiddoti  in  the  beautiful  vale  which 
it  hugged  in  its  embrace,  wCTe  located  several  &milies 
of  old  settlers,  who  had  lived  through  the  trials  and 


THE   OLD    STILL-EOVSE.  219 

dangers  of  the  Indian  war,  and  who,  as  soon  as  the 
peace  was  declared,  and  the  garrison  opened  its  doors, 
had  gone  forth  with  their  families,  and  settled  on 
their  farms  in  this  beautiful  area,  surrounded  by  high 
hills,  and  bordered  by  the  stream. 

"  Shall  we  go  ?"  asked  "  uncle  W ,"  as  the  loud 

report  of  the  cannon  came  booming  through  the  hills ; 
but  the  smoke  rolled  up  from  his  sugar  camp,  and 
the  plough  stood  in  the  furrow,  and  he  turned  to  his 
husbandry  and  smiled, —  he  could  not  be  tempted 
away. 

"  Shall  we  go  ?"  asked  Frank  of  his  father,  a  brave 
old  veteran  of  the  Revolution,  who  had  lost  one  limb 
in  battle,  but  was  "worth  as  much  as  a  well  man 
yet."  It  was  he,  old  Capt.  Jonathan  Devol,  who 
built  the  first  floating-mill  on  the  waters  of  Mus- 
kingum, that  gave  bread  to  the  settlers.  As  the 
"  Putnam  "^  poured  out  its  salute  before  his  door,  and 
the  band  played  the  "Star-Spangled  Banner,"  he 
hobbled  out  upon  his  cane,  and  bowed  low  his  vener- 
able head  to  the  gallant  Captain  of  the  proud  craft. 
The  wind  stretched  out  to  their  full  size  and  length 
the  stars  and  stripes  that  floated  from  her  prow,  and 
waved  their  recognition  to  the  salute  of  the  old 
soldier. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  Israel  Putnam,  a  lineal  descend- 
ant of  the  venerable  Pom  fret  hero,  —  "let  us  go, 
Helen;"  and  in  a  moment  they  were  flying  in  the 
light  canoe  to  the  steamer's  side,  while  the  cannon 
again  sent  out  its  signal. 

"Shall  we  go?"  asked  the  young  Russells;  but 


220  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;     OB, 

the  careful  father  and  prudent  mother  shook  their 
heads;  how  could  they  decide  which  of  the  half- 
dozen  beautiful  girls,  or  industrious  boys,  should 
leave  the  farm  and  its  labors.  On  went  the  boat. 
The  loud  salute  was  fired  before  a  brick  mansion. 
Hats  were  flung  high,  and  handkerchiefs  waved,  and 
the  boat  passed  on.  Now  they  were  at  the  semi- 
circle that  enclosed  the  farm  of  Col.  Joseph  Barker, 
the  beautiful  spot  which  the  English  novelist,  Murray, 
has  called  Mooshanna. 

"Shall  we  go?"  asked  the  daughters,  with  beating 
hearts,  as  they  looked  down,  from  their  home  on  the 
bluff,  at  the  flying  steamer. 

But  the  old  Colonel  shook  his  head,  as  if  not  stirred 
by  the  excitement  which  called  others  from  their 
homes  to  line  the  banks  and  wave  their  cheers  to  the 
flying  stranger. 

"Pho,  pho!"  said  he,  "can't  you  see  it  from  here? 
I  have  seen  it  at  Marietta;  it's  nothing  but  a  steam- 
boat!" 

And  he  hummed  his  tune,  and  worked  away  witli 
a  drawing-knife  at  a  hoop  for  the  rain-barrel.  But 
what  troubled  his  eyes  just  then  ? 

"  Plague  take  the  dust ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  drew 
out  his  bandana  from  the  pocket  of  his  home-made, 
bro^vn,  hunting-shirt.  He  wiped  his  eyes  again  and 
again ;  the  dust  would  not  away.  Ah !  it  was  the 
dust  and  cobwebs  of  time  that  troubled  him  ;  of  old 
memories,  of  early  hardships,  of  dangers,  toils  and 
death  ;  of  friends  long  gone,  linked  to  the  present  by 
every  success  and  every  triumph. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  221 

His  heart  was  full  —  full  to  the  brim,  of  those  old 
stirring  times ;  and,  welling  up  they  ran  over  at  his 
eyes.  Memories  of  days  when  he  was  young,  when 
the  hair  upon  his  brow  was  not  silvered ;  when  he 
roamed  the  dense  forest,  rifle  in  hand,  and  peeretl 
cautiously  for  the  savage  foe  behind  every  tree  and 
fallen  log;  when  the  panther  lay  crouched  in  the 
path,  and  the  rattlesnake  coiled  itself  by  the  wayside, 
and  the  wild  wolf  howled  nightly  upon  the  hills;  of 
the  days  when  friends  and  brothers  went  out  at  morn, 
and  returned  not  at  nightfall ;  when  sickness  and 
sorrow  came  with  heavy  steps,  and  there  were  none 
to  help ;  when  the  fire  swept  away  the  toil  of  years, 
and  the  hopes  of  days  to  come. 

But  the  danger  had  passed ;  the  savage  and  the 
wild  beast  were  subdued.  Friends,  neighbors,  chil- 
dren, peace,  prosperity  and  abundance  had  come  as 
the  reward  of  past  perils.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  his  heart  beat  a  loud 
response  to  the  spirit-stirring  notes  of  "  Hail  Colum- 
bia," as  they  came  floating  over  his  wide  meadows. 
He  tried  to  keep  cool  under  it  all ;  but  the  glittering 
blade  made  tremulous  motions  in  his  hands. 

Boom!  went  the  cannon,  as  the  steamer  shot  by  the 
line  that  separated  his  field  from  his  neighbor.  On, 
on  went  the  boat,  circling  round  the  bend,  while  he 
whittled  away  at  his  hoop,  unwilling,  like  many  other 
•  old  men,  to  own,  even  to  himself,  that  nature  was. 
struggling  for  utterance  in  his  soul ;  unwilling  to  let 
her  speak  aloud  in  the  language  of  joy  and  triumph. 

The  girls  had  sped  away  to  the  river-bank,  and 

19* 


222  ELSIE    MAG  0  OK;    OR, 

the  mother  stood  gazing  from  tlie  window ;  there 
were  memories  tugging  at  her  heart-strings,  too,  as 
Capt.  Green,  who  was  an  old  friend,  passed  the  spot 
where  the  settler's  cabin  had  stood  at  first;  where  the 
tall  pear-tree  pointed  to  the  sky,  and  the  great  elm 
spread  its  mighty  arms  over  an  acre  of  soil, — where 
he  had  often  moored  his  keel-boat,  and  built  his 
camp-fire,  in  years  long  gone, — and  ordered  another 
salute  in  memory  of  those  days. 

The  Colonel  could  stand  no  more ;  his  horse  was  out 
in  an  instant ;  and  though  no  Bucephalus,  he  knew  his 
master's  will  and  did  it.  The  Colonel  mounted,  the 
enthusiasm  of  boyhood  and  the  vigor  of  manhood 
seemed  burning  in  his  veins,  hurling  the  cool  gravity 
of  age  from  its  seat ;  and,  grasping  the  reins,  down  the 
hill  and  across  the  valley  he  dashed,  and  met  the  gal- 
lant Captain  at  the  upper  end  of  the  bend.  The  old 
man  raised  himself  in  his  stirrups,  lifted  his  hat  ou 
high,  and  gave  one  loud,  long  huzza  that  went  echoing 
through  the  hills  far  above  the  din  of  wheels  or  roar 
of  the  spouting  stream,  and  was  followed  almost 
instantly  by  a  blast  from  the  old  cannon  which  made 
the  very  tree-tops  tremble.  The  band  struck  up 
"  Yankee  Doodle,"  and  gave  the  gray-haired  pioneer 
a  hearty  cheer.  On  flew  the  boat,  on  flew  "  old  grev," — 
but  it  was  in  vain  ;  the  new  power  subdued  the  old, — 
and  with  a  bow  and  another  wave  of  his  hat,  the 
proud  old  farmer  went  back  to  his  thoughts  and  his 
work 

The  first  eight  miles  up  the  Muskingum  is  a  fair 
sample  of  the  entire  journey.     People  rushed  to  the 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOVSE.  223 

banks  for  miles  away,  to  see  the  mighty  wonder  of 
the  age.  Many  had  never  heard  of  a  steamboat,  for 
newspapers  did  not  travel  the  world  as  now ;  and 
fear  and  terror  took  fast  hold  upon  such,  when  they 
first  heard  the  report  of  the  great  gun. 

It  was  not  the  Fourth  of  July,  nor  the  Twenty- 
Second  of  February,  —  why  then  should  guns  be 
fired?  Timid  ones  were  sure  that  the  " British  were 
coming  again;"  others,  who  heard  the  roar  of  steam, 
ran  to  their  neighbors.for  prayers ;  the  day  of  judgment 
might  be  at  hand.  One  old  lady,  who  had  heard  of  the 
fabulous  sea-serpent,  fled  to  the  hills  with  her  grand- 
children, lest,  like-'uonah,  they  should  be  swallowed 
alive.  An  old  salt  suggested  that  a  whale  had  lost 
his  way,  and  was  floundering  and  spouting  up  the 
fresh  water  of  the  Muskingum. 

All  this  excitement  may  seem  strange  to  those  who 
see  daily  the  magnificent  boats  of  the  present  gliding 
quietly  by  their  doors.  They  can  have  no  conception 
of  the  noisy,  puffing  crafts  of  forty  years  ago,  which 
often  heralded  themselves  from  a  distance  of  four  or 
five  miles,  with  every  revolution  of  the  wheel ;  and 
the  curiosity  and  wonder  they  created  could  not  be 
equalled  now,  were  we  to  see  a  long  line  of  rail- 
cars  flying  by  steam  through  the  air.  Less  a  wonder 
would  such  a  phenomenon  be  to  us,  than  was  the 
"  Rufus  Putnam  "  to  a  majority  of  the  settlers  on  the 
banks  of  the  beautiful  Muskingum  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1820 

Miss  L closed  her  article  amid  the  acclamation 


224  ELSIE   MA  GOO N;    O R, 

of  the  party.  Conversation  followed ;  each  of  the  elder 
members  warmed  up  by  the  allusions  to  border  life, 
had  something  of  personal  experience  to  relate;  and 
so  closed  the  literary  entertainment  which  had  been 
both  new  and  interesting  to  the  Eastern  gentlemen. 

Dancing  was  now  called  for,  and  the  young  and 
old  joined  in  a  cheerful  country -dance,  filling  the  hall, 
the  parlor,  and  the  long  dining-room  of  the  farm- 
house; while  those  Avho  did  not  join  in  the  dance 
chatted  and  walked  about,  and  made  themselves 
happy  as  best  they  could  ;  and  at  ten  o'clock  the 
company  dispersed. 

"  How  do  you  like  our  primitive  society  ?  "  asked 
Elsie,  as  Lincoln  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  after  the 
departure. 

"  It  is  admirable.  I  have  enjoyed  it  exceedingly." 
"  I  have  long  felt,"  continued  Elsie,  "  that  if  we 
would  lead  the  young  away  fr^  folly  and  vice,  we 
must  give  them  something  fetter  in  their  stead.  We 
should  have  little  need  of  moral  or  temperance  lec- 
tures, if  every  neighborhood^fcould  gather  together, 
in  pleasant  social  ways,  its  yoiMg  men  and  maidens ; 
and  the  old  and  the  wise  would  aid  in  governing  and 
guiding  the  appetites  and  passions,  and  regulating 
the  amusements." 

"Your  idea  is  a  novel  one.  Miss  Magoon,"  said 
Lincoln,  "  and  I  fear  you  will  find,  after  all,  that  the 
human  mind  is  sometimes  perverse,  and  will  run  its 
owner  into  ruin,  despite  the  most  earnest  effort." 

"True;  but  will  not  that  be  the  case,  whatever 
instrumentalities  are  used?     If  the  young  man   is 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOD SE.  225 

made  happy  in  the  society  of  those  he  loves,  without 
any  feelings  of  uncomfortable  restraint ;  if  he  can  eat 
and  drink  reasonably,  laugh  and  sing  cheerfully,  chat 
freely  and  dance  merrily;  will  he,  think  you,  wish  to 
visit  the  low  grog-shop,  the  tavern  bar-room,  or  the 
secret  club-room,  or  the  midnight  ball,  where  vice 
and  depravity  are  his  companions,  and  sin  and  shame 
the  dark  shadows  that  follow  his  outgoings?" 

Lincoln  started.  Had  she  read  the  secrets  of  his 
city  life  ?  Did  she  know  that  he  was  a  wine-bibber, 
a  frequenter  of  the  club-room  ?  He  felt  as  if  his  soul 
were  laid  bare  before  her  searching  gaze. 

But  ere  he  had  time  to  reply,  Alice  and  Walters, 
with  Mary  and  George,  returned  from  a  walk  to  the 
willows,  with  their  friends,  in  the  moonlight. 

If  the  young  men  had  dreams  of  fairy-girls  that 
night,  it  is  not  strange ;  nor  shall  we  own  that  they 
have  therefore /oZfeji  in  love. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

TTTELL,  my  most  amiable  friend,  son  of  a  whole- 
*»  sale  Xew  York  merchant,  and  grandson  to 
one  of  the  double  F's  of  the  little  Island  of  Great 
Britain, — educated  at  Yale,  finished  on  the  Conti- 
nent, and  dwelling  in  a  palatial  residence  on  Fifth 
Avenue, — will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  how 
your  lordship  stands  affected  towards  the  country 
maiden,  who  mounts  her  horse  so  adroitly,  waits  on 
table  so  sweetly,  and  talks  morality  so  preachingly  ?  " 

"Out  upon  your  nonsense,"  replied  Lincoln  to  his 
friend ;  "  have  done  with  your  review  of  my  descent, 
condition,  and  position!  I'd  barter  all  my  so-called 
advantages  with  the  veriest  clod-hopper  in  creation, 
just  now." 

"  Then  I  must  say  you  would  be  immensely  foolish, 
young  man  ;  for  by  the  reading  of  your  horoscope,  I 
fear  that  if  you  were  to  make  a  blunder  so  egregious, 
you  would  find  the  heroine  of  the  romance  turning 
coldly  upon  you,  to  lean  on  the  confiding  breast  of 
the  Fifth- Avenue  gentleman." 

"  But  to  think  of  it,  Walters !  that  splendid  crea- 
ture gone  mad  on  temperance !  I  learned  from  one 
of  the  boys  here  to-night,  that  she  and  her  mother 
are  the  head  and  ftt>nt  of  that  great  movement  here- 

(226) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  227 

abouts.  Tell  you  what,  Charley,  I  shall  have  to  keep 
a  sharp  look-out,  or  I  shall  gain  no  favor  here !" 

"  Gain  no  favor  here?  what  are  you  talking  about; 
are  you  gone  stark  mad  ?  Why,  we  must  be  off  at  our 
work  on  Monday  morning,  and  probably  you,  nor  I, 
will  ever  meet  those  really  charming  girls  again." 

"  That 's  true.  But  I  must  say  in  confidence  to 
you,  Charley,  that  I  have  never  before  really  felt  as 
if  the  blindfold  little  god,  in  his  haphazard  shoot- 
ings, had  hit  my  heart.  But  I  own  up  I  am  wound- 
ed;— whether  mortally  remains  to  be  seen." 

"  Seriously,  Albert,  I  think  we  'd  better  leave  be- 
fore breakfast  to-morrow,  for  I  find  even  the  cold, 
slow  pump  that  keeps  my  life-current  ebbing  and 
flowing,  is  moving  a  little  faster  than  usual.  The 
fact  is,  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  our  fashionable  beauties. 
Our  dressing, — calling, — promenading,  —  waltzing, 
— gallopading, — schottisching, — polkaing, — jjrecise- 
belles;  that  do  everything  by  the  rule  of  popular 
conventionalism,  and  never  think,  feel  nor  act,  with- 
out consulting  the  book !  Now  I  am  a  free  man ; 
my  father  was  a  farmer's  son,  and  my  mother  was  the 
assistant  of  his  mother  in  the  kitchen-duties ;  and 
they  made  a  love  match  of  it,  and  as  near  as  I  can 
discover,  have  never  repented ;  and  though  we  now 
tread  marble  halls,  and  bury  our  footsteps  in  "  ta- 
pestry," I  can  well  remember  when  a  log-cabin  home 
held  as  happy  hearts  as  now  beat  under  the  blaze  of 
chandeliers,  and  far  more  brilliant  and  merry  smiles 
than  are  reflected  now  from  ten-feet  mirrors." 

"And  what  has  all  that  to  do  with  my  leaving 
before  breakfast;  am  not  /  free?" 


228  ELSIE    MAG  0  0  N;     O  R, 

"  Bless  my  stars,  no  !  your  Patrician  blood  would 
boil  over  if  you  were  to  attempt  to  be  free  on  that 
subject,  —  I  mean  that  in  the  veins  of  your  honored 
progenitors." 

"  There  would  be  a  mighty  fluttering  among  the 

aristocratic  fathers  of  the  C s  and  L s,  if  the 

hopeful  scion  of  their  lordly  house  were  to  take  it 
into  his  head  to  unite  his  destiny  with  that  of  a  com- 
mon Ohio  farmer's  daughter." 

"  To  bed,  to  bed,  and  be  off  with  you,  ere  the  sun 
gilds  the  hill-tops  yonder,  or  there  is  no  knowing 
what  will  happen." 

This  conversation  passed  between  the  two  cheerful 
friends  after  they  had  retired  to  their  room  for  the 
night ;  this  and  much  more,  for  neither  felt  the  least 
desire  to  sleep.  The  incidents  of  the  evening  had 
roused  a  new  train  of  thought  in  their  minds ;  and 
when  at  last,  at  a  late  hour,  they  fell  into  the  embrace 
of  the  drowsy  god,  it  was  to  dream  of  wild  rides 
with  ladies  on  horseback,  of  swimming  silvery  streams 
and  sinking  amid  swollen  waves,  and  rising  amid 
dancing,  laughter,  and  innocent  cheer  and  mirth. 

But  both  were  awakened  betimes  from  their  fitful, 
changing  vision,  by  a  soft,  sweet  voice  accompanying 
the  piano,  singing  a  cheerful  Sabbath  melody. 

They  sprang  from  their  beds  to  find  the  sun  al- 
ready high  in  the  heavens,  and  everything  betoken- 
ing a  splendid  autumn  day. 

They  found  breakfast  waiting,  and  were  soon  again 
in  cheerful  tHe-h-tete  with  the  household. 

A  minister  from  the  city  filled  the  desk  that  day, 


THE   OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  229 

in  the  little  brick  church  in  the  grove.  Thither  all 
the  family  repaired,  to  listen  to  a  sermon  of  ordinary 
merit,  to  join  in  the  choir-singing,  and  to  kneel  in 
the  fervent  prayer.  The  walk  through  the  shady 
lane,  the  beautiful  maple-forest,  and  by  the  river-side 
was  delightful,  and  gave  the  party  opportunity  for 
much  conversation. 

Just  as  the  twilight  shadows  were  deepening  down 
the  long  avenue  of  maples,  the  young  friends  saw  the 
aged  form  of  Granny  Alison  wending  her  way  up 
the  road  toward  the  farm-house. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter !"  exclaimed  Elsie,  with 
a  disturbed  look.  "  Grandmother  is  a  strict  observer 
of  Sabbath  sanctities;  I  never  knew  her  leave  her 
home  before,  on  this  day,  except  for  church." 

"  There  is  some  trouble,  you  may  be  sure,"  re- 
plied Alice.  "  Jenny  is  sick,  or  Willy  is  astray  again ; " 
and  lx)th  girla  went  out  to  meet  the  silver-haired  old 
woman. 

"  Why,  grandma,"  said  Elsie,  "  what  brings  you 
80  far  from  home  at  nightfall ;  what  has  happened  ?" 

"  Och,  thin,  it 's  not  me  that  can  tell  yees,  my  dar- 
lint ;  but  my  heai't  is  sick  with  fear  that  the  worst 
has  come  that  could  befall  poor  old  granny." 

"  Are  you  very  sick,  grandma  dear?" 

"Nay,  niver  a  bit,  but  with  waping  my  eyes  out 
all  the  long  day  after  him." 

"After  whom?" 

"  Och  thin,  I  thought  I  'd  told  ye's.     Ye  knows 
that  Willy — the  very  bone  of  my  body  he  is,  in  my 
old  age,  sure — went  down  town  to  work  with  Mister 
20 


230  EL  SIE   MAG  0  0  X;    O  R, 

Forbes,  who  keeps  the  '  White  Horse/  just  to  mind 
the  gintleraen's  boots,  and  carry  water,  and  hold  the 
horses  for  thim,  and  such  likes.  I  trembled  whin  he 
went,  lest  the  Evil  One  should  be  lading  him  astray, 
as.  it  has  often  done  afore,  and  but  for  your  blessed 
works  he'd  'a'  niver  been  got  back.  Heaven  bless 
and  keep  ye  for  the  same!  But  thin  he  promised 
me,  he  did,  over  and  over,  that  he  would  niver  touch 
a  dhrop. 

"  'Do  you  think  I  'd  be  touching  Miss  Elsie's  heart 
again,'  he  said,  '  and  be  bringing  the  tears  iutil  her 
eyes  with  my  badness  ?  niver,  granny,  niver.*  And 
so  I  let  him  go,  and  two  weeks  he  came  back  to  me 
when  the  Saturday  night  came,  and  it  was  the  beau- 
tiful quarter  of  tea,  and  a  pound  of  sugar,  and  a  new 
border  for  my  cap,  he  fetched ;  and  Jenny  a  pretty 
ribbon,  too ;  and  we  were  as  happy  as  angiels — ask- 
ing your  pardon  for  saying  it — and  och !  but  the 
Sunday  was  like  heaven,  down  at  the  garden.  But 
last  night  he  came  no  more,  and  all  the  long  night 
we  sit  up  and  waked  for  him,  and  sorry  tears  we 
dropt  there,  alone  by  the  cabin-fire ;  and  when  the 
sun  come  up,  I  sint  Jenny  all  the  weary  way  down 
to  the  'White  Horse,'  to  be  asking  Mr.  Forbes 
about  him,  and  niver  a  word  did  she  find  of  the  poor 
lost  darlint ;  and  so  I  be  come  to  ye's  to  tell  me  what 
to  do, — for  sure  ye 're  the  only  friends  poor  old 
granny  has  now.     Och !  ahone,  it 's  trouble,  trouble.'* 

"  Cheer  up,  grandmother ;  we  shall  soon  find  out 
about  Willy.  Maybe  Mr.  Forbes  has  sent  him  away 
on  business,  or  needed  him,  and  did  not  like  to  tell 
Jenny." 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  231 

"  And  sure,  need  he  tell  a  lie  to  trouble  my  poor 
ould  heart,  thin?" 

"  No,  no ;  it  was  wrong,  if  he  did.  But  you  return 
now  to  the  cottage ;  it  is  a  beautiful  moonlight  night, 
and  George  and  I  will  ride  to  town  and  see,  and 
come  home  by  the  garden  and  tell  you." 

"  Heaven  bless  and  presarve  you,  and  may  niver  a 
drop  of  trouble  get  into  your  cup,"  said  the  aged  and 
sorrow-stricken  woman.  " But  I 'se  fearing  it's  tho 
whiskey  again, —  the  whiskey  that  kilt  my  husband, 
and  his  father,  and  now, —  och,  Willie!  Willie,  it's 
breaking  my  heart  for  ye's." 

The  old  woman  turned  down  the  lane,  and  sobbing 
heavily,  took  the  way  to  hef  lonely  home. 

"  I  am  not  obliged  to  you,  sister,  for  so  uncere- 
moniously engaging  ray  services  in  this  romantic 
business,  this  evening;  for  I  am  already  pledged  in 
another  direction." 

"Ah,  indeed  !  then  I  shall,  like  the  ladies  of  olden 
time,  (^11  upon  this  noble  knight  to  be  my  escort." 

"  Most  gracious  lady,  it  will  give  me  exquisite 
pleasure  to  do  your  bidding  in  this  momentous  aifair," 
answered  Albert  Lincoln. 

Elsie  saw  the  half-concealed  sneer  couched  in  the 
last  words.  But  it  did  not  disturb  her,  and  she  turned 
instantly  to  order  the  horses.  ■ 

"  Oh !  I  would  not  bother  myself,  Elsie,"  said 
George ;  "  you  have  already  saved  that  fellow  from 
destruction  three  times,  and  if  he  is  determined  to 
go,  let  him  go." 

"  Three  times  three,  George,  and  three  times  three 


232  ELSIE    MAG  O  OX;     OB, 

added  to  that,  if  needful.  This  last  time  he  has  kept 
sober  for  a  year,  and  how  light  and  joy  has  come 
through  my  poor  efforts  to  the  humble  home  of  his 
old  grandmother  and  his  sweet  sister ! " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  then  it  only  raises  .hope  to 
make  the  coming  disappointment  more  fearful.  He 's 
not  worth  saving" — 

"George,  do  not  speak  so,"  answered  the  heroic 
girl.  "  Not  worth  saving !  a  human  soul  not  worth 
saving  from  that  most  dreadful  of  all  fates  —  the  life 
of  a  drunkard !  Is  it  not  worth  a  moonlight  ride, 
and  an  easy  effort,  to  still  the  anguish  of  that  old 
mother,  who  has  walked  her  threescore  and  ten  in 
such  sorrow  and  tribulation  ?  Not  worth  an  effort 
to  keep  the  sunshine  of  peace  hovering  over  that  little 
garden,  and  the  song  of  cheerfulness  warbling  from 
the  lip  of  that  sister  ?  Not  worth  an  effort  to  lift 
the  generous,  light-hearted,  loving-natured  Willy 
again  out  of  the  slough  of  destruction,  and  place  his 
feet  on  the  solid  ground  of  self-reliance  and  self- 
control?" 

"Well  I  know,"  said  George,  subdued  by  her 
earnestness,  "  it  is  a  great  thing  to  redeem  a  man  from 
the  habits  of  intemperance,  but  I  have  not  your  faith, 
that  Willy  can  ever  be  redeemed.  There  is  not  much 
help  for  an  Irishman." 

"  There  you  are  wrong  again,  ray  brother.  They 
are  an  impulsive,  generous  race ;  and  if  the  oppres- 
sions in  their  native  land  have  driven  them  to  ours 
for  protection,  shall  we  let  them  die  in  their  weakness 
and  ignorance  ?     Let  us  save  all  who  can  be  saved : 


THE    OLD    STILL-nOVSIE.  233 

none  shall  reach  out  their  hand  to  me  for  help  in 
vain." 

Elsie  went  for  her  bonnet  and  riding-habit,  and' 
the  two  were  soon  on  their  way. 

As  they  rode  towards  the  village,  the  eye  of  Lincoln 
rested  upon  the  Old  Still-House,  gilded,  as  it  rose  in 
the  vale  below,  by  the  full  raoon,  which  shone  down 
upon  its  stillness  and  desolation. 

"What  is  that  old  ruin?"  asked  Lincoln. 

"  It  is,  or  rather  was,  a  distillery,  once  owned 
by  my  father.  But  it  is  many  years  since  he  gave  up 
the  business,  and  it  is  now  used  only  as  a  granary, 
and  its  outbuildings  as  a  shelter  for  the  cattle  and 
sheep;" 

"Did  he  not  find  it  profitable  ?^'  asked  the  city 
gentleman. 

"Profitable?"  responded  Elsie,  with  emphasis, 
and  turned  her  full  blue  eyes  upon  him,  which  flashed 
in  the  moonlight  like  blazing  stars.  "No,  Mr. 
Lincoln,  it  was  not  profitable,  nor  can  it  be  profitable 
to  any  human  being  in  the  best  sense,  to  distil  the 
waters  of  death  for  his  fellow-men." 

"  You  are  a  strong  advocate  of  temperance,  I  see. 

"  And  who  would  not  be,  knowing  the  vice  and 
crime  that  it  spreads  over  the  world?" 

"  Intemperance  is  a  sad  vice,  't  is  true,  but  a  mod- 
erate use  of  exhilarating  beverages  cannot  be  con- 
demned, I  think." 

"  But  who  is  contented  with  a  moderate  use  ?     Is 
the  enjoyment  obtained  by  this  'moderate  use'  of  the 
poison  by  a  few,  an  equivalent  for  the  suffering  and 
20* 


2J4  ELSIE   M AGO  OX;    OB, 

sorrow  l>roa«rlit  apon  the  community  by  the  immod- 
oalA  use  of  the  many  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  I  do  not  know  that  denying 
myself  an  occasional  social  glas?  would  have  the 
tSect  to  reform  the  world:  and  I  really  feel  that 
time  is  too  much  excitement  upon  the  subject,"' 

**  Too  much  excitement ! "  she  repeated ;  "  can  tbsxe 
be  too  much,  when  thousands,  tens  of  thousands^  and 
hundreds  of  thousands,  of  our  iellow-beings,  led  on 
by  a  burning  and  unsatisfied  d^re,  are  sinking  hourly 
into  the  drunkard's  grave?  When  our  ears  are  per- 
petually pained  with  the  sol&ring  enr  of  the  vidinis 
of  intempoance ;  when  desecrated  homes,  widowed, 
or  worse  than  widowed  wives,  and  deserted,  beggared 
orphans,  meet  us  in  all  our  daily  walks  ?  Whoi  this 
is  so,  shall  we  be  told  that  we  can  feel  too  mof^?" 

^  But,  Mi^  MagooD,  I  cannot  see  how  anj  m- 
dimdMol  dlR»t  is  to  stay  this  evil,  or  dip  the  wings 
of  unnatural  and  nnoonlftolled  d^re." 

''Individual  c^RmI  cannot  adinsfy  stay  the  eviL 
But  individual  e^rt  can  often  avert  individual 
wToa^.  And  believing  as  I  do,  that  there  are  moe 
sober,  sdf-denying  men  in  any  mmmnnHy  than  there 
are  drunkards;  and  that  eadli  <Hie  of  tfa«e  waay 
redeem  at  least  one  victim ;  I  believe  that  we  may, 
by  this  acdcHi,  and  by  our  outspoken  testimony  in 
£^vor  of  total  abstinenoe,  create  a  public  opinion  at 
length,  which  shall  oadicate  the  dread  aoomge  from 
among  us." 

"  Ah !  I  fear  it  will  be  many  ayear,  my  feir  friend, 
ere  your  Utopian  scheme  will  reach  any  pnctkal 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE,  235 

result.  Surely  I  can  most  heartily  wish  its  entire 
success." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  move  slowly,  while  many  of 
the  best  men  of  our  country  stand  in  firm  phalanx 
disputing  every  step  of  the  ground,  and  even  erect- 
ing barriers  in  our  path,  which  compel  us  to  waste 
our  energies  in  combating  professed  friends  instead 
of  leaving  us  a  clear  track  and  bidding  us  God  speed 
in  our  missions." 

"  Surely  no  good  man  who  has  the  true  interest  of 
the  Race  at  heart,  will  be  guilty  of  such  treason  to 
his  country's  good." 

There  was  the  least  bit  of  sneer  in  the  voice  of 
Lincoln  throughout  this  conversation,  as  if  from  a 
consciousness  that  he  should  confound  the  country 
maiden,  and  make  her  feel  his  superiority.  Elsie 
perceived  his  feeling  and  answered  promptly. 

"  Do  you  not  see,  Mr.  Lincoln,  that  you  stand  ex- 
actly in  that  category  ?  If  you  are  a  good  and  true 
man  —  a  lover  of  your  kind — and  feel  convinced  that 
ardent  spirits  as  a  beverage,  when  taken  to  excess,  are 
productive  of  untold  evils,  and  the  direct  cause  of  a 
large  proportion  of  the  crimes  committed  in  our 
country, — why  do  you  compel  me  to  waste  my  time 
and  energies  in  arguing  the  question  ?  Why  not  at 
once  admit  the  wrong,  and  suggest  a  remedy  ? " 

"  I  think  you  state  the  case  rather  strongly.  I  am 
certainly  an  advocate  of  temperance :  I  only  suggest 
that  one  can  be  temperate,  while  not  pledged  to  totil 
abstinence." 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  question  ?  " 


236  ELSIE   MA  GOO  N;    O  R, 

"As  many  as  you  please,  IMiss  Magoon." 
"  How  many  men  do  you  know  who  arc  moderate 
drinkers,  who  have  grown  old  or  even  middle-aged, 
and  do  not  at  some  time  drink  to  excess  —  drink  so  iis 
to  make  those  who  love  them  blush  for  their  weak- 
ness, if  not  their  depravity  ?  " 

Lincoln  ran  over  his  list  of  friends.  He  remem- 
bered his  aged  father,  whose  wine  and  brandy  were 
every-day  necessaries;  and  who,  though  not  sixty 
years  of  age,  was  already  yielding  under  his  "  mod- 
erate" system,  to  petulance,  forgetfulness,  ^nd  occa- 
sional inebriety.  He  remembered  too,  the  tearful 
eyes  of  his  beloved  and  venerated  mother,  when  the 
excited  father,  after  his  wine,  raised  his  voice  angrily 
among  his  guests,  or  descended  to  silliness  and  dis- 
gusting suavity.  He  could  not  remember  one,  among 
them  all,  who  was  not,  at  times,  less  a  man  for  his 
indulgence. 

He  answered  the  question  promptly  and  honestly, 
as  was  his  nature : 

" Really,  Miss  Magoon,  I  cannot  think  of  one" 
"  One  more  question  :  If  you  had  a  brother  who 
loved  his  intoxicating  draught,  and  when  one  was 
taken  was  incapable  of  resistance ;  and,  thus  deprived 
of  the  powder  of  self-control,  would  upon  every  pos- 
sible occasion  drink  himself  into  the  basest  condition 
of  inebriety ;  would  you  not  be  willing  to  forego  the 
pleasure  you  take  in  moderate  drinking,  rather  than 
— in  the  language  of  Shakspeare — 'Put  an  enemy 
into  his  mouth,  to  steal  away  his  brains '  ? " 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  237 

"  When  the  dark  shadow  enters  our  own  circle,  we 
all  quail/'  was  the  prompt  reply. 

He  was  thinking  oi  just  such  a  brother,  and  of  his 
mother's  repeated  request,  that  intoxicating  drinks 
should  not  be  placed  before  the  children  of  the  house- 
hold. He  was  thinking  of  himself  too ;  of  his  college 
days ;  of  his  club-room  sprees,  and  the  times  without 
number  when  he,  the  "  moderate  drinker,"  had  risen 
from  his  bed  after  a  night's  social  revelry,  with  blood- 
shot eyes  and  aching  head,  and  a  deep  consciousness 
of  self-abasement. 

But  they  were  now  at  the  door  of  the  "  White 
Horse,"  and  the  conversation  ended. 

The  "Still-House"  fires  no  longer  burned  at  the 
grove,  it  is  true,  nor  did  its  shrieks  re-echo  through 
the  valley.  But  while  in  its  immediate  neighborhood 
not  a  drunkard  was  found,  the  town  of  Smithville 
was  accursed  with  more  than  one  of  those  "  breathing- 
holes  of  hell," — as  they  have  been  not  improperly 
named, — town  groggeries.  Indeed,  as  society  ad- 
vanced, and  the  foreign  population  poured  in,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  increased  demand  for  alcoholic  drinks. 
And  while  iiT  was  entirely  excluded  from  the  tables 
and  sideboards  of  many,  and  total  abstinence  held 
rule  in  households,  where  twenty  years  before  the 
idea  was  considered  preposterous,  the  enemy  still 
lurked  in  many  a  corner,  and  his  victims  were 
numerous. 

Political  strife  ran,  high,  hard-cider  songs  echoed 
from  one  party — while  something  stronger  was  not 
unfrequently  found  cheering  the  hearts  of  the  other. 


2S8  ELSIE   MAG  O  OX. 

"  Washingtonians,"  "  Sons,"  "  Cadets/'  and  varions 
orders,  were  meanwhile  increasing  in  influence,  and 
battling  with  the  foe.  But,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
the  women — the  wives  and  mothers,  sisters  and 
daughters — had  taken  no  part  in  the  great  struggle 
except  to  attend  the  lectures,  and  to  help  at  an  occa- 
sional festival. 

But  the  time  seemed  now  approaching  when  wom- 
an's positive  artion  was  needed  no  less  than  her  in- 
direct influence; — and  Mrs.  Magoon  and  her  noble 
daughter  no  longer  stood  alone. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

r^  OOD  evening,  Miss  Magoon,  —  good  evening, 
^  stranger,"  said  the  obsequious  landlord  of  the 
White  Horse,  bowing  and  rubbing  his  hands,  as  the 
two  entered  his  porch.  "  Does  sore  eyes  good  to  get 
a  sight  of  you.  Miss  Magoon.  How 's  your  father, 
and  all  the  folks,— all  well?" 

This  direct  question  seemed  to  require  an  answer. 

"As  well  as  usual,  Mr.  Forbes,"  replied  Elsie, 
taking  her  way  toward  the  bar-room  door. 

"Walk  up-stairs.  Miss  Elsie,  —  Miss  Magoon,  I 
mean, — this  way — this  way,  if  you  please;  you  will 
find  all  right  up-stairs,  and  I  will  send  in  Mrs,  Forbes 
and  Cynthia,  in  an  instant;"  and  the  perturbc<l 
dram-seller  almost  drew  her  back  with  his  trembling 
hands. 

Lincoln  stepped  in  between.  His  hand  was  ready 
to .  send  the  officious  Mr.  Forbes  off  the  porch,  for 
daring  to  lay  his  finger  on  one  every  moment  be- 
coming more  and  more  sacred  to  him. 

"  Miss  Magoon,  sir,  knows  which  way  she  wishes 
to  go,"  said  Lincoln,  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  stranger.  But  young  ladies 
isn't  apt.  Sir,  to  want  to  go  into  bar-rooms,  Sir — 
that's  all,  Sir — ask  your  pardon.  Sir." 

In  the  confusion  of  the  moment,  Elsie  stepped 

(289) 


240  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OB, 

before  the  landlord,  walked  deliberately  into  the  bar- 
room, and,  nothing  daunted,  up  to  the  bar. 

There,  sitting  around  in  a  small  room  of  some 
twelve  feet  square,  were  one  dozen  or  more  men  of 
the  town,  puffing  cigars  or  pipes — 'some  with  feet 
over  the  backs  of  chairs — others  half-lounging — 
others  flat  upon  their  backs;  wdiile  the  floor  was  lit- 
erally dyed  with  the  nauseous  flood  of  tobacco-spittle, 
sent  forth  in  every  direction  from  wagging  jaws. 
Three  or  four  young  boys  were  loitering  round  the 
room,  inhaling  the  poisonous  atmosphere,  and  taking 
lessons  in  profanity  and  obscenity  from  men,  aged 
men — fathers  and  husbands — who  were  there  on  that 
Sabbath  evening,  leading,  not  their  own  children,  but 
the  children  of  others,  down  the  dark  avenues  of  vice 
and  wrong. 

Had  an  angel  from  heaven  walked  in  among  them, 
they  could  not  have  been  more  astonished  and  dis- 
mayed. They  would  have  met  a  minister  with  jest 
and  sneer ;  an  officer  of  the  law  with  oaths  and  resist- 
ance; but  a  woman, — and  one  whose  character,  by 
her  undeviating  rectitude,  unflinching  integrity  and 
kindness,  had  enforced  respect,  —  they  knew  not  how 
to  meet  in  a  place  like  that,  where  all  were  ashamed 
of  being  seen. 

There  was  the  Justice  of  the  Peace,  Squire  Murdock, 
—  who  had  sworn  before  God  and  man  to  enforce  the 
law, — listening  to  language  that  would  have  been 
actionable,  had  he  done  his  duty.  In  one  corner,  just 
behind  the  bar,  and  screened  by  a  frame  on  which 
was  posted  the  show-bill  of  a  menagerie,  sat  four 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  241 

young  men  engaged  in  a  game  of  cards,  with  dollars 
and  half-dollars  upon  the  corners  of  the  table.  One 
of  these  was  the  constable ;  another,  the  youngest  and 
best-beloved  son  of  the  judge  of  the  county,  whose 
fine  residence  on  the  hill-side  near  by  looked  down  on 
the  humble  pretensions  of  the  brick  tavern.  There 
was  Dr.  M'Guire,  too,  who  was  considered  a  very 
worthy  and  exemplary  man — but  who  dropped  in 
at  the  tavern  bar-room  to  talk  politics  with  Mr.  Jack- 
son, the  grocer ;  and  Mr.  Edwards,  who  was  running 
for  Congress,  who  was  restless  to  hear  the  news  and 
to  gain  the  votes  of  those  who  loiter  on  Sal)bath-days 
and  on  week-days  around  the  grog-shop  doors,  and 
who  were  sure  to  be  influenced  by  his  suavity  and 
condescension  in  coming  in  to  see  them,  in  shaking 
hands  all  round,  and  giving  them  all  a  treat. 

And  there  she  stood  in  their  midst,  the  pure,  true 
woman,  unabashed  and  unawed.  "Unabashed  and 
unawed !  -"  you  exclaim.  "  Could  a  pure-minded, 
true-hearted  woman  stand  unabashed  and  unawed  in 
a  tavern  bar-room,  among  the  low  and  depraved,  the 
sensual  and  vile  ?  " 

And  why  not  ?  Is  woman's  purity  of  so  frail  a 
texture — like  the  lace  of  the  satin  in  which  she 
arrays  herself — that  she  must  stand  watching  and 
fearing,  all  through  life,  lest  it  become  soiled,  and 
tattered,  and  henceforth  useless  forever  ? 

Away  with  such  flimsy  notions  of  woman's  purity 
and  truth.  That  which  will  not,  like  the  diamond, 
bear,  unsullial,  contact  with  wrong,  when  that  con- 
21 


242  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OK, 

tact  becomes  necessary  to  a  great  and  wise  purpose,  is 
not  the  true,  the  pure,  or  the  good. 

And  why  should  not  Miss  Elsie  visit  that  bar- 
room on  a  Sabbath  evening?  The  pew  of  Judge 
Heath  was  next  their  own,  at  church ;  and  no  one 
would  have  been  shocked  to  have  seen  her  in  con- 
versation with  the  finest-looking  young  man  in 
Smith ville  —  Walter  Heath,  who  was  the  very  "beau 
Brummell"  of  the  town.  Squire  Murdoch  was  the 
stanch  friend  of  morality  and  virtue  in  the  debating 
society,  and  at  the  new  Lyceum.  His  family  all  went 
regularly  to  the  Presbyterian  church,  and  his  chil- 
dren were,  regular  Sabbath-school  scholars.  He  only 
"dropped  into  the  tavern  to  chat  a  little."  Dr. 
M'Guire,  too,  was  of  the  upper  ten;  and  Mr.  Ed- 
wards, the  popular  man  on  the  Whig  ticket  just  then ; 
and  Mr.  Forbes,  the  landlord,  was  a  man  of  influence 
among  those  who  visited  his  bar,  —  he  must  be  held 
firmer  in  his  Whig  principles ;  and,  perhaps,  that  part 
of  the  democracy  so  easily  bought  over  with  a  glass 
of  brandy,  might  desert  the  standard  of  Polk,  and 
come  over  to  the  help  of  Clay,  and  thus  give  an 
additional  vote  to  Chauncy  Edwards,  and  help  him 
to  "  roast-beef  and  eight  dollars  a  day." 

Not  a  place  for  a  young  lady  !  Who  says  so  ?  The 
very  men  who  go  there  daily — who  know  how  shock- 
ingly demoralizing  it  is;  who  have  felt  their  own 
souls  sinking  into  lower  depths  of  infamy  at  each 
succeeding  visit; — they, — the  judge,  the  squire,  the 
constable,  the  lawyer,  the  merchant,  the  doctor,  the 
mechanic, — they  know  well  that  it  is  no  place  for  any 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  243 

human  being  who  would  preserve  himself  in  the 
image  of  God.  They  have  said  it,  —  lest  in  some 
hour  of  frantic  solicitude,  or  dark  despair,  their  own 
mothers,  and  wives,  and  daughters  should,  unan- 
nounced and  unexpected,  intrude  upon  their  revelries, 
as  did  our  heroine,  and  bring  to  light  the  dark,  foul 
deeds  enacted  behind  those  dreadful  screens. 

No  place  for  woman  !  Then  is  it  no  place  for  man 
to  gather  impurity  till  his  whole  soul  reeks  with 
filthiness,  and  carry  it  burning,  steaming,  bubbling, 
home  to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  to  be  pressed  upon 
the  lips  of  his  child,  or  poured  in  coarse  curses  into 
tlie  ear  of  his  victim-wife 

Our  Elsie  paused  not  to  ask  what  a  cavilling  world 
would  say,  nor  even  to  consult  the  refined  cavalier  by 
her  side.  There  she  stood,  in  the  midst  of  that  den 
of  beasts,  who  a  moment  before  were  sending  up  roars 
of  ribald  laughter  over  the  drunken  efforts  of  one 
Dennis  Flinn,  who  could  neither  stand,  nor  talk 
coherently.  Flinn  was  once  a  young  lawyer  of  grcjit 
promise,  a  fluent  speaker,  with  all  the  rich  imagi- 
nation and  impulsive  genius  necessary  to  have  given 
him  honor,  wealth,  and  influence ;  now  only  a  blear- 
eyed,  bloated,  wretched  victim  of  licensed  bar-room 
depravity. 

Flinn  was  instantly  pulled  down  upon  a  bench  by 
Squire  Murdock;  Dr.  M'Guire  left  in  great  haste; 
wiiile  Mr.  Edwards,  bowing  to  Mr.  Forbes,  caught 
his  hat,  saying — as  if  he  had  been  in  upon  some  bus- 
iness of  consequence — "  You  will  attend  to  that  mat- 
ter, Mr.  Forbes?" 


244  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  was  the  ready  reply. 

Every  mau  in  the  room  was  on  his  feet  in  an  in- 
stant; cards  were  dropped;  half-dollars  slid  into 
pockets ;  while  the  blood  of  yet  uncorrupted  inno- 
cence rushed  to  the  very  temples  of  the  young  men 
caught  at  what  they  knew  was  wrong — in  a  place 
in  which  they  would  not  for  worlds  have  had  mothers 
and  sisters,  and  young  maidens  of  their  acquaintance, 
know  that  they  spent  their  leisure  hours. 

"  Mr.  Heath,"  said  our  heroine,  as  the  young  man 
stood  blushing  and  stammering  before  her,  "I  want 
your  help.     I  am  after  Willy  Alison, — is  he  here?" 

The  young  man  stammered,  looked  at  the  landlord, 
then  at  Elsie,  and  then  his  eye  turned  toward  an  open 
door  that  led  into  a  back  room.  "  He  is  there,"  was 
the  laconic  reply,  in  husky  tones. 

"  Come  with  me !  "  was  her  peremptory  command, 
as  she  walked  directly  through  the  bar-room,  where, 
among  whiskey-barrels  and  other  articles  necessary  to 
the  trade,  was  the  bed  of  Willy  Alison ;  or,  rather, 
an  old  frame  or  shelf  against  the  wall,  covered  with 
a  dingy  straw  bed,  and  an  old  quilt  or  two. 

Here,  lying  on  his  face,  his  hair  matted  and  tangled 
about  his  fair  young  brow,  the  dirt  and  stain  of  ine- 
briation upon  his  clothes  and  face,  lay  Willy  Alison 
—  the  darling  boy  of  the  old,  doating,  doubly-widowed 
grandmother;  the  brother,  the  only  brother  of  that 
sweet,  confiding  child  who  had  walked  that  long, 
weary  road,  in  the  morning,  to  ask  for  him  there,  and 
been  told  he  was  not  with  them. 

The  landlord  naturally  enough  followed  them. 


THE    OLD    STILL-nOUSE.  245 

"Did  you  not  tell  Jenny,  Mr.  rorl)es,  when  she 
came  down  this  raoruiug,  that  Willie  was  not  here?" 
asked  Elsie,  with  an  earnestness  that  admitted  of  no 
equivocation. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Miss  Elsie — Miss  Magoon  ;  that 
young  man  canH  be  kept  straight.  I  Ve  talked  to 
him  a  great  deal  about  drinking,  but  somehow  he 
will  get  it,  and  then  there  is  no  stopping  him." 

"And  do  you  advise  him  not  to  drink,  while  you 
are  constantly,  before  his  eyes,  tempting  others  to  do 
the  thing  you  desire  him  not  to  do?" 

"Well,  you  see,  madam — Miss  Elsie — Miss  Ma- 
goon, ahem  ! — you  see,  Willy  is  a  great  favorite  m  ith 
my  customers, — ahem, — and  so  ready  and  willing 
to  wait  on  'em,  and  the  old  woman  has  taught  him 
to  be  so  good-mannered,  that  they  are  always  treating 
him  and  tempting  him ;  I  do  believe,  ma'am  that  the 
boy  would  have  done  well,  if  he  'd  'a'  been  let  alone, 
ma'am.     But  gentlemen  like  to  be  generous." 

"  Gentlemen !  like  to  be  generous ! "  repeated  she, 
with  a  voice  of  withering  scorn  ;  "  do  you  call  this 
generosity?  He  has  waited  on  them  kindly,  and 
they  have  repaid  him  by  breaking  down  his  good 
resolutions — by  destroying  his  faith  in  himself — by 
robbing  him  of  reason,  and  making  him,  there  on 
that  filthy  bed,  a  lower  thing  than  the  brute  that 
wallows  in  the  mire  !" 

"  Well,  but  you  see.  Miss — ahem." 

"  Do  not  attempt  a  justification,  sir.  No  gentle- 
man, or  rather,  I  should  say,  no  man  true  to  himself, 
lifts  the  damning  glass  at  your  counter.     They  are 

21* 


24n  ELSIE   MA  GO  OX;    on, 

fiends  in  human  form,  who  have  done  this  terrible 
tiling." 

**  You  are  hitting  some  near  by/'  said  a  day-laborer, 
who  had  come  there  to  smoke  and  talk,  and  who  had 
once  been  saved  by  Mrs.  Magoon  from  a  drunkard's 
Me. 

"  Walter  Heath,  is  it  you  who  have  done  it  ? ''  she 
exclaimed,  turning  her  piercing  eyes  upon  him,  as  if 
she  would  read  into  his  very  soul. 

"Go  at  once  for  a  horse  and  vehicle;  this  boy 
must  be  taken  to  his  grandmother  to-night.  How 
long  is  it  since  he  went  to  bed?" 

"  Well  then,  Mis  Magoon,"  again  began  the  land- 
lord, apologetically,  "you  know  there  was  a  club- 
meeting,  last  night,  out  here  on  the  square, — and  the 
speakers  wanted  a  little  to  warm  *em  up,  and  Bill 
was  right  busy,  and  after  th^  broke  up,  they  stayed 
wanning  themselves  and  treating  round, — and  —  I 
reckon  Mr.  Heath  and  ]Mr.  Edwards  can  tell  you 
how  it  happened;"  and  the  tavern-keeper  cast  a 
malicious  glance  at  the  remaining  respectables — who 
shrank  from  him  as  frt>m  a  demon, — "  anyhow,  about 
midnight  I  found  him  a  leetle  the  worse  for  liquor, 
and  told  him  to  turn  in." 

"Oh,  Watter  Heath!" 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Elsie,  I  only  offered  him  one  glass 
—  I  know  it  was  wrong,  very  wrong." 

"And  did  one  glass  lay  him  there ?" 

"  You  see.  Miss — Miss  Magoon,  when  the  young- 
ster woke  up  this  morning,  he  felt  pretty  bad ;  he  'd 
the  headache  powerfully,  and  then  he  b^an  to  talk 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  247 

about  his  old  granny,  and  he  couldn  't  stand  it,"  said 
the  landlord. 

"And  so  he  drank  again?" 

"  Yes ;   but  I  reckon  he 's  about  sober  now." 

The  landlord's  wagon  was  now  at  the  door. 

"Willy,  Willy,"  said  Elsie,  as  she  shook  the  stupid 
sleeper,  who  turned  over,  muttering.  "  Willy,  wake 
up,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me." 

The  young  man  stammered  out  an  oath,  with  a 
thick  and  lumbering  tongue. 

"  I  'd  'a'  thought  that  voice  was  Miss  Magoon's," 
said  the  boy,  "  if  I  had  n't  heard  it  in  this  d — d  rum- 
hole.  Oh,"  added  he,  stretching  himself,  "  I  wish  to 
God  I  'd  never  come." 

"Willy,"  again  spoke  his  friend,  "Willy, look  up, 
it  is  I — and  in  this  fearful  rum-hole — I  have  come 
to  take  you  away,  and  to  carry  you  to  your  poor  old 
grandmother." 

The  boy  started  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  him  — 
opened  his  eyes,  glanced  wildly  around  him,  and  then 
at  her.  In  a  moment  the  whole  truth  seemed  to  flash 
upon  him,  and  dropping  his  face  into  his  open  palm, 
he  wept  aloud,  till  the  tears  fell  through  his  soiled 
fingers  and  washed  away  a  part  of  the  dismal  stains. 

"  Come,  Willy,"  she  added,  after  giving  his  bur- 
dened heart  time  to  vent  itself.  "  I  must  leave  this 
place ;  it  is  not  a  fit  place  for  you  or  me." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Elsie,  you  have  been  so  good  to  me,  and 
how  I  have  broken  all  my  promises, —  will  grand- 
mother let  me  come  home  again,  —  will  you  forgive 
me, — and  let  me  have  a  chance  to  try  once  more?" 


248  ELSIE   MA  GO  OX;    OR, 

Elsie  made  no  other  answer  than  to  take  hi>  tear- 
washed  hand    in  her  own,  and  say,  "  Come,  Willy, 


come 


V* 


And  the  boy,  magnetized  by  her  influence,  arose  and 
followed  her  to  the  door,  and  stumbled  into  the 
wagon  without  a  word. 

"  "SValter  Heath,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  drive 
him  to  his  grandmother's. 

"Certainly,"  replied  "Walter,  anxious  to  do  any- 
thing to  wipe  out  the  fearful  stain  his  character  had 
that  night  received ;  and  stepping  into  the  wagon,  he 
seated  himself  beside  the  half-drunken  boy  and  drove 
away. 

When  they  returned  from  the  dark  hole,  in  which 
W^illy  had  slept  away  his  inebriation,  to  the  bar- 
room, there  was  not  one  loiterer  there.  What  a 
change  had  been  wrought  in  that  room,  in  so  short  a 
space,  by  her  presence  there !  She  had  repelled  the 
degradation  and  shame,  and  cast  it  from  her;  no 
oaths,  no  vulgarity,  no  shuffling  of  cards,  no  smoking, 
no  drinking  were  done  after  her  foot  passed  the  thresh- 
old. The  guests  had  slunk  away,  one  by  one,  and 
Mr.  Forbes  was  busy  with  the  broom,  trj'ing  to  sweep 
out  the  evidences  of  their  recent  carousal. 

"Mr:  Forbes,"  said  Elsie,  drawing  herself  up 
proudly  before  the  man  of  grog,  "  William  will  not 
return  to  his  place.  I  shall  try  and  find  a  home  for 
him  elsewhere." 

"  Well,  madam  —  Miss  Elsie  —  that  is  to  say,  Miss 
Magoon,  I  reckon,  maybe  he  would  n't  do  the  like 
agen  —  he 's  a  first-rate  feller  —  does  more  'n  any  two 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  249 

boys  I  git  for  common,  and  it's  a  mighty  busy  time. 
Keally,  Miss  Elsie  —  Miss  —  I  don't  exactly  know 
how  to  git  along  without  him.  He 's  a  great  favorite 
with  my  customers." 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  But  he  is  also  a  favorite  of 
mine,  and  I  shall  not  show  my  love  by  making  him 
a  loathed,  despised,  and  helpless  thing.  Is  that  your 
son  ?"  she  asked,  as  a  fair  boy  of  some  eight  years  old 
stepped  into  the  bar-room. 

"  Why,  yes ;  that 's  our  Ben.  Ben,  this  is  Miss 
Elsie  —  Miss  Magoon  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Ben,  "  I  guess  I  ha'n't  forgotten 
my  school-marm ; "  and  the  boy  sprang  into  her  arms, 
and  ventured  to  kiss  her  cheek.  She  held  his  hand 
in  hers,  and  looked  from  his  bright  eyes  to  his  father's, 
where  the  great  sweat-drops  of  agitation  and  shame 
were  gathering. 

"  Do  you  love  this  child  —  this  link  that  binds  you 
to  his  dead  mother,  now  in  heaven  ? '' 

The  tavern-keeper  quailed  before  her  searching 
look,  and  stammered  out  that,  of  course,  he  loved  his 
only  boy. 

"  Then,  as  you  value  your  peace  in  life,  —  as  you 
value  your  hopes  of  future  happiness,  cease  the  un- 
godly traffic, — or  this  boy,  whom  your  soul  loves,  shall 
lay  at  your  feet,  the  drunken  worthless  vagabond  — 
the  wretched  drivelling  sot  that  you  have  made  of 
hi:n  whom  you  have  sent  home  to-night,  to  bring 
sorrow  and  tears  to  the  sleepless  pillows  of  age  and 
childhood  !  For  as  sure  as  there  is  an  avenging  God, 
the  curse  will  fall.     You  may  sow  the  wind,  but  you 


250  ELSIE    MAG  00  N;     O  R, 

shall  reap  the  whirlwind ; "  and  with  one  more  kiss 
upon  the  brow  of  the  boy,  she  passed  out,  mounted 
her  horse,  and  followed  the  wagon  to  the  widow's 
garden  in  the  wood. 

" Father,  what  did  Miss  Elsie  mean?"  asked  the 
boy. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  'zactly.  Benny — you'd 
better  go  in  now, —  I  don't  like  to  see  you  in  the  bar- 
room Sunday  night." 

"  Did  n't  she  mean  I  'd  get  drunk  some  time,  just 
like  Willy  Alison,  when  I  get  bigger  ? " 

"  Well,  I  expect  that  was  it ; —  but  you  won't,  will 
you?" 

"  Why,  father,  if  you  want  all  the  rest  of  the  men 
to  git  drunk,  why  don't  you  want  me  to  git  drunk, 
when  I  git  a  man  ?  " 

"  Because,   Benny  —  well  —  men  are  fools   when 
they  git  drunk,  and  act  bad." 
"  What  do  they  do,  father?" 
"  Oh,  they  spend  their  money,  and  whip  their  little 
boys." 

"  Then  don't  you  sell  them  any  more  whiskey. 
You  would  n't  like  to  have  a  man  sell  you  whiskey, 
and  make  you  come  home  and  whip  me,  would  you, 
father?" 

"  Go  into  the  house,  Benny,  go  into  the  house, " 
said  he,  as  he  pushed  his  boy  out  of  door. 

The  doubly-rebuked  landlord  walked  up  and  down 
the  deserted  room.  He  had  leisure  now  for  thought, 
for  the  customers,  so  strangely  surprised,  came  not 
back  that  night. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  251 

Sadly,  silently,  proudly,  rode  Elsie  Magoon  by 
Lincoln's  side,  on  their  return  to  the  cottage.  She 
knew  he  did  not  approve  her  course,  that  he  had 
shrunk  from  entering  with  her,  and  had  stood  with- 
out, while  she  accomplished  her  work.  But,  prome- 
nading around  the  porch,  he  had  heard  through  an 
open  Avindow  all  that  passed  in  the  back  room.  He 
had  stood  by  the  door  when  she  met  Benny ;  and  she 
felt  now  in  no  mood  to  argue  with  him.  Whatever 
he  might  have  felt  when  she  entered,  he  had  now  no 
disposition  to  call  her  to  account  for  a  work  so  nobly 
done. 

Riding  thus,  side  by  side,  in  silence,  they  overtook 
the  wagon,  and  the  party  arrived  together  at  the  gate, 
and  were  met  by  the  aged  grandmother  and  her  little 
granddaughter,  who  were  out  walking  to  and  fro  in 
the  moonlight,  watching  for  the  prodigal's  return. 

"  We  have  brought  him  back  to  you,  grandma," 
said  the  maiden  ;  "  but  he  is  sore  sick,  in  body  and 
soul.  Be  kind  to  him;  I  will  come  and  see  you  both, 
to-morrow." 

"Oh,  Willy,  ye 're  welcome,  darlint !  come  as  ye 
will,"  said  the  aged  woman,  wiping  her  tears  upon 
her  apron,  and  following  him  up  the  path. 

Jenny  saw  his  condition,  and  shrunk  among  the 
I'nes  to  weep  away  her  sorrow  and  mortification. 

Walter  Heath  was  about  turning  back,  when  Elsie 
rode  up  beside  the  wagon. 

"Walter,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  impressive  voice, 
"shall  I  tell  Mary  what  I  have  seen  to-night." 

"  I  dare  not  tell  you,  no,"  he  replied. 


252  EL  SIE    MAG  0  0  N. 

"Last  Sabbath  evening,  Walter,  you  sat  by  her 
side.  I  cannot  believe  that  you  truly  love  Mary, 
and  yet  can  mingle  in  such  a  crowd  as  that.  Come 
no  more  to  us  until  I  see  you  again.  I  will  not  tell 
her,  but  with  your  consent.  Good  night.  God  save 
you  !  Good  night."  Had  vice  and  sin  clung  with 
their  contamination  to  the  white  garments  of  this 
Angel  of  Mercy  ? 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

AFTER  leaving  Grandma  Alison's  cottage,  the  two 
rode  on  in  silence  for  some  distance.  The  au- 
tumn winds  rustled  the  foliage  of  the  beech-trees, 
and  the  night-birds  sung  their  doleful  melodies. 
There  is  no  more  fearful  sound  in  the  dark,  dim 
woods,  than  the  hoot  of  the  night-owl,  and  the  cry 
of  the  whippoorwill  seems  ever  like  a  note  of 
despair. 

The  horses  jogged  along  sociably  together;  they 
knew  the  road,  and  needed  no  guidance. 

The  riders  were  busy  with  their  own  thouglits. 
Elsie  was  sad.  Willy  Alison  was  so  good,  when  ho 
could  be  kept  sober,  and  withal  carried  so  much  hap- 
piness or  misery  with  him,  according  to  his  condition, 
that  she  could  not  be  indifferent  to  his  fall. 

Lincoln  was  pondering  his  strange  condition, — 
riding  alone,  with  one  of  the  liveliest  and  noblest- 
looking  girls  he  ever  saw,  in  the  wild  woods  of  Oliio, 
— one  he  had  only  known  a  day,  to  rescue  from  a 
village  doggery  a  low  Irish  boy  whom  he  would 
have  found  dead-drunk  on  the  pavement  of  New 
York  without  a  thought. 

And  what  was  all  this  coming  to?  How  was  he 
to  get  away  from  this  enchantment?  What  could  ho 
say  for  himself,  if  she  should  ask  him,  in  direct  terms, 
22  (253) 


254  ELSIE   MAGOO  X;     O  R, 

of  his  temperance  principles  ?  He  b^an  half  td  re- 
solve that  he  would  not  drink  any  more,  that  he  would 
go  home  and  start  a  temperance  reform  in  his  own 
club;  and  actually  ran  over  in  his  own  mind  the 
form  of  a  preamble  and  resolutions ;  when  a  sound 
fell  upon  his  ear  that  made  the  blood  start  from  his 
heart  with  a  livelier  bound,  and  tingle  with  a  pleasant 
excitement  to  his  finger-ends.  It  was  not  owl  or 
whippoorwill,  the  neighing  of  his  steed,  nor  the 
bark  of  Cleo ;  but  the  voice  of  his  companion. 

"  Well,  my  friend,  what  do  you  think  of  oar  ad- 
venture ?  " 

''Really,  Miss  Magoon,  I  hardly  know  how  to 
express  my  thought;  it  was  to  me  a  very  singular 
experience.'* 

"  It  will  do  for  an  item,  if  you  journalize.*' 

"  But  I  fear  I  should  fiJl  short  of  doing  the  sub- 
ject justice,  were  I  to  attempt  it,  or  I  might  feel 
inclined  to  give  such  earnestness  and  self-sacrifice  a 
publicity  beyond  my  own  scrap-book." 

"Self-sacrifice!  Do  you  call  this  pleasant  ride  in 
the  sweet  moonlight  'self-sacrifice?'  I  fear,  Mr. 
Lincoln,  you  have  not  been  well  entertained." 

"  Oh !  Mi^  Magoon,  you  mistake  me ;  I  certainly 
did  not  mean  to  imply  any  sacrifice  on  my  part." 

"  And  I,  certainly,  have  felt  none  on  mine.  There 
is  a  pleasure  in  doing  good  to  others,  which  overrides 
all  the  annoyance  or  inconvenience  usually  attached 
to  ita  performance." 

"  That  is  true ;  but  is  it  not  very  unpleasant  for 
you,  a " 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  255 

"  A  young  lady,  to  go  into  a  tavern  bar-room,  just 
to  save  a  human  soul  ?  "  said  Elsie,  throwing  into  her 
tone  the  full  force  of  her  feeling. 

"  That  is  the  question  I  was  going  to  ask,"  was  his 
reply ;  "  but  you  have  asked  it  and  answered  it  at  one 
breath,  and  leave  me  nothing  further  to  say  upon  the 
subject,  except  that  I  admire  your  heroism.  Would 
you  do  as  much  for  every  one?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  should,  were  I  as  sure  that  I  could 
accomplish  my  object." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  that  the  young  man  will  be 
permanently  reformed  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not ;  but  if  1  can  succeed  in  keeping 
him  sober  and  good  even  for  a  half-year,  it  will  be 
worth  far  more  than  the  effort  has  cost." 

"  That  is  true ;  but  will  he  not  be  more  difficult 
to  save  the  next  time?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  if  he  fall ;  but  do  you  think  that 
he  will  be  as  incorrigible  as  if  I  had  left  him  to  drink 
until  every  feeling  was  deadened,  and  his  loves  and 
sympathies  destroyed  ?  Would  it  be  easier  then  than 
now,  think  you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Lincoln,  musingly. 

"Besides,  I  feel  sure  that  Willy  is  not  the  only 
rebuked  one  of  the  evening.  I  believe  that  young 
Heath  will  long  remember  that  he  met  a  friend  in 
that  den  of  wild  beasts.  I,  at  least,  have  now  a 
knowledge  of  his  predilections  which  I  had  not 
dreamed  of  before.  I  may  not  save  him ;  but  there 
is  another." 

She  paused  suddenly,  as  if  unwilling  to  speak  family 


256  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

secrets  to  a  stranger.  The  conversation  seemed  as 
suddenly  ended,  for  they  found  themselves  emerging 
from  the  wood  into  a  flood  of  moonlight,  so  beautiful 
and  clear,  that  it  hushed  their  tongues  into  silence, 
and  their  hearts  into  reverence  and  admiration. 

"  Miss  Magoon,"  said  Albert  Lincoln,  after  a  few 
moments'  pause  in  the  conversation,  "  the  beauty  of  this 
night,  the  deeply  impressive  and  interesting  expe- 
rience I  have  just  passed  through,  together  with  the 
conversation  we  have  had,  will  long  be  remembered 
by  me.  We  shall  leave  your  father's  hospitable  man- 
sion to-morrow — whether  we  ever  meet  again,  w^ill 
depend  upon  you.  May  I  ask  of  you  a  memento  of 
this  day,  which  will  be  to  me,  hereafter,  as  an  oasis 
in  the  dreary  desert  of  business  details  and  uninter- 
esting adventures?  I  know  you  write.  I  know, 
too,  you  write  rhymes.  Let  me  carry  away  with  me 
something  that  will  be  a  talisman  against  future 
temptations;  for  here,  in  this  sacred  moonlight,  I 
pledge  you  my  word  and  honor  as  a  man,  that  I  will 
strive  to  resist  the  habits  which  have  grown  upon  me, 
and  which  have  been  enforced  even  by  the  training 
of  my  life.  I  have  been  an  habitual  wdne-bibber, 
but  I  am  resolved  to  turn  reformer." 

Elsie  turned  her  face  to  his ;  the  beams  of  the  moon 
shone  clearly  upon  her  radiant  brow,  and,  in  her  ear- 
nestness, she  laid  her  hand  upon  his. 

"God  help  you  to  keep  in  that  mind,"  was  her 
hearty  response. 

They  were  now  at  the  gate,  and  were  met  by  the 


THE    OLD    STILL- no  USE.  2.5*1 

family  and  welcomed  home,  with  many  anxious  in- 
quiries after  the  success  of  the  mission. 

While  Elsie  and  Albert  Lincoln  had  ridden  lei- 
surely through  the  shaded  forest,  Charles  Walters 
and  Alice  had  been  sitting  beneath  the  same  old  beach 
by  the  river-side  where  Ellen  and  Dugan  sat  years 
before  and  talked  their  loves,  ere  the  shadows  fell  upon 
their  lives. 

To  make  a  long  story  short, — though  Walters  had 
not  fallen  in  love,  he  had  jumped,  with  a  brave  bound, 
out  of  the  stagnant  pool  of  indifference,  and  was  as 
fairly  and  determinately  wooing  the  country  maiden 
as  need  be  done.  They  will  leave  to-morrow  —  the 
two  merchants'  sons, — so,  reader,  let  us  bid  them 
good  night. 

In  the  morning,  Lincoln  found  a  note  awaiting 
him,  which  he  crowded  hurrially  into  his  pocket- 
book.  An  early  farewell  ^vas  spoken  to  the  family, 
and  the  guests  departed.  Already  had  his  inter- 
course with  Elsie  become  too  sacred  for  the  obser- 
vation of  a  third  party. 

GO  FORWARD. 

Art  'most  resolved  ?     Ah  !  pause  not  now, 

But  on  !  with  courage  strong ; 
Go  forward  !  with  a  stern  good  will, 

And  help  to  right  this  wrong. 

The  people  in  their  bondage  groan, 
And  for  deliverance  cry  — 
"Oh!  save  us  from  the  drunkard's  curse ! 
Oh !  save  us,  ere  we  die ! " 
22* 


258  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OB, 

"  Go  forward !  "  was  the  Lord's  command, 
When  Israel's  heart  grew  chill; 
60  forward!  He  will  part  the  waves, 
And  bid  the  winds  'be  still!  '  " 

««0h,  touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not;'' 
Be  firm  where'er  thou  art ; 
And  thou  mayest  cast  the  demon  from 
A  thousand  suffering  hearts. 

"Go  forward"  —  every  effort  made 
Will  be  a  blessing  given 
To  woman's  heart;  and  woman's  prayer 
Shall  waft  thy  soul  to  heaven. 

At  the  first  quiet  opportunity  Lincoln  read  eagerly 
the  lines  -svhieh  Elsie  had  given  him ;  their  refrain, 
"  Go  forward,"  rang  in  his  ears  like  the  cry  of  fate. 
Again  and  again  he  asked  himself — Shall  I  turn  re- 
former? Oh!  there  is  need,  there  is  need.  Shall 
woman  suffer,  and  man  boast  of  being  her  protector, 
and  yet  withhold  his  hand,  while  this  demon-scourge, 
a  thousand  times  knotted,  is  lacerating  her  heart,  and 
making  life  a  curse  instead  of  a  blessing?  And  the 
answer  to  all  these  inquiries  cam6  sounding  on  the 
autumn  blast,  as  he  rode  along,  like  the  voice  of  in- 
spiration—  "Go  Forward.  Is  there  not  one  dead 
in  every  house  ?     Will  you  wait  longer  ?  " 

As  they  journeyed  on,  Walters  often  rallied  his 
friend  on  his  abstraction,  but  be  could  not  bring  him 
back  to  his  original  conviviality.  There  was  evi- 
dently something  on  his  mind  of  which  he  did  not 
wish  to  speak.  They  arrived  safely  in  the  great  city 
of  the  West ;  and  soon  a  party  of  old  friends  gath- 
ered about  them — schoolmates  and   college  chums. 


THE    OLD    STILL-nOUSE.  259 

whom  they  had  not  seen  since  they  had  parted  at  the 
door  of  their  alma  mater. 

An  evening  at  the  Broadway  Hotel  was  agreed 
upon  ;  and  the  jolly  company  met  in  one  of  its  finely 
arrayed  rooms,  intending  "to  make  a  night  of  it." 

Wine  was  ordered  by  the  Cincinnati  boys  in  gen- 
erous profusion,  and  a  supper  at  midnight.  And 
when  the  duties  of  the  day  were  done,  they  came 
dropping  in,  one  by  one,  until  seven  old  friends  were 
found  chatting  under  the  light  of  the  brilliant  chan- 
deliers, of  the  old  times,  old  loves  and  joys 

Lincoln  and  Walters  had  not  yet  made  their  ap- 
pearance. They  were  spending  the  evening  at  the 
house  of  a  lady-acquaintance,  and  would  not  join  the 
company  before  ten  o'clock.  The  young  men  were 
growing  impatient ;  for  each  longed  to  lift  the  wine- 
cup  to  his  lips. 

The  expected  gentlemen  at  last  made  their  ap- 
pearance. 

"  Why,  Lincoln  my  boy,  where  the  devil  have  you 
been  keeping  yourself  so  long?"  asked  John  Mel- 
ville, a  young  man  of  splendid  physical  proportions, 
and  broad,  open  brow,  which  proclaimed  him  the  very 
soul  of  generosity  and  good-humor. 

"With  my  old  flame  —  Ellen  Morrow,"  replied 
Lincoln ;  "  how  she  has  faded  and  grown  old,  in  three 
years. —  What  is  the  matter,  Melville?" 

"  Matter !  why,  matter  enough :  Charley  has  taken 

to  drink,  and  made  a  beast  of  himself.  —  But,  come, 

the  w'ine  will  burst  the  bottles,  if  we  don't  uncork  it." 

"  Not  a  drop  to-nigJit"  answered  Lincoln,  who  was 

the  soul  of  the  party. 


260    .  ELSIE    MAG  0  OX;     OR, 

There  was  coaxing,  scoldino:,  swearing,  and  jeering; 
but  it  was  of  no  avail,  Lincoln  was  unmoved. 

"How  long,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful," 
exclaimed  young  Melville,  whose  eyes  already  showed 
the  dim  glare  of  inebriety,  "  how  long  since  you  have 
resolved  to  become  a  saint?" 

"  Ever  since  we  have  met  to-day,"  answered  Lin- 
coln, with  emphasis ;  "  ever  since  we  have  met  to-day, 
John  Melville;  and  I  saw  in  your  eye  and  cheek, 
what  that  accursed  wine-bottle  was  doing  for  you." 

"  Oh,  the  devil !  Lincoln,  don't  come  out  West  here 
with  any  of  your  canting;  —  we  are  not  so  green ;  — 
joined  the  church,  eh?  since  we  left  the  old  moun- 
tains ?  Hurrah  there,  Walters !  is  Al  going  to  take 
orders?" 

"  Blow  me,  if  I  know ;  he  has  been  sober  as  a 
Methodist  circuit-rider,  these  three  days." 

Melville  by  this  time  had  drawn  the  cork  from  a 
bottle  of  champagne,  and  filled  a  goblet  to  the  brim 
with  the  sparkling  liquid ;  and  in  the  tumultuous  joy 
of  the  moment,  he  roared  out  one  of  their  old  songs : 

"  When  Bibo  went  down  to  the  regions  below, 
Where  Lethe  and  Styx  round  eternity  flow, 
He  awoke,  and  he  swore  that  he  would  be  rowed  back; 
That  his  soul  it  was  thirsty,  and  thirsty  for  sack. 

♦You're  drunk,'  said  old  Charon, 

'  You  were  drunk  when  you  died, 
And  know  not  the  pains  that  to  death  stand  allied.' 

'Row  me  back,'  cried  old  Bibo; 

'  I  '11  mind  not  the  pain. 
Row  me  back,  row  me  back,  let  me  die  drunk  again.'"' 


TUE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  201 

Glasses  were  now  filled  all  round;  and  Melville 
was  just  placing  his  to  his  lips,  when  Lincoln  caught 
his  hand,  with  the  imperative  word  "  stop." 

"What's  the  matter,  sir?"  demanded  the  young 
mar,  indignantly. 

*  Remember  your  3fother"  said  Lincoln,  in  low, 
solemn  tones;  "have  you  forgott<?n,  John,  what 
every  son  should  feel  for  the  mother  who  gave  him 
life?" 

The  song  was  checked.  The  impressive  manner 
of  Albert,  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  pronounced 
tliat  holy  word  "  mother,"  caused  a  pause  in  their 
mirth. 

Melville  set  his  glass  upon  the  table. 

"  Your  mother's  last  words  to  me,  Melville,  as  I 
parted  from  her,  in  the  old  family  parlor,  were : 

"  '  Oh  !  Albert,  do  try  and  find  out  what  John  is 
doing :  he  is  so  gay  and  wild,  that  I  fear  he  may  run 
into  excesses;  tell  him  not  to  drink  wine;  tell  him, 
oh!  tell  him  it  was  wine  that  brought  his  father  to 
ruin,  and  sent  him  —  ray  dear  boy  —  away  from  his 
mother's  arms,  out  into  the  world,  alone.  '  Oh  !  tell 
him  not  to  break  my  heart/ 

"  Now,  Melville,  do  you  wish  to  drink  that  glass 
of  wine?"  asked  Lincoln,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
friend's  shoulder. 

John  walked  to  the  window,  but  spoke  not  a 
word. 

"  Boys,"  said  Lincoln,  noticing  that  he  had  stayed 
proceedings,  "  now  let  us  reason  this  matter  a  little. 
Here  are  we  met,  nine  of  us,  who  spent  some  of  the 


262  ELSIE   MA  GO  ON;    Oh', 

happiest  years  of  life  together ;  I  ask  you  each,  in 
all  seriousness,  is  it  a  reasonable  way  to  enjoy  our 
reunion : 

« To  be,  now  sensible  men,  by-and-by  fools ; 
And,  presently,  beasts.' 

"  I  have  been  learning  some  strange  lessons  of 
late  —  lessons  I  wish  we  had  all  heard  long  ago ; 
and  now  let  me  implore  you  all  to  allow  me  to  set 
aside  these  bottles  of  wine,  and  let  us  compare  notes 
of  the  past,  talk  over  the  present,  and  lay  plans  for 
the  future.  It  will  be  a  higher  enjoyment  than  to 
go  to  bed  with  muddled  brains,  to  get  up  to-morrow 
with  aching  heads,  even  if  we  escape  committing 
some  disgraceful  act,  of  which  we  shall  all  be  ashamed; 
and  compelled  perchance  to  burden  our  consciences 
with  deceptions  and  evasions, —  to  screen  us  from  the 
censure  of  friends.  Oh,  how  could  I  dare  portray 
the  scenes  that  might  be  enacted  in  this  room  ere 
midnight,  to  John's  mother?" 

Melville  turned  suddenly  upon  the  speaker.  "  Lin- 
coln, give  me  your  hand ;  you  are  right,  let  us  be 
happy  without  wine."  Pressing  the  young  man's 
hand  in  his  own,  he  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  away 
what  had  hardly  been  placed  before  them. 

Two  of  the  party  followed  the  wane,  and  sought 
enjoyment  in  another  room.  A  long  evening  of  social 
chat  followed,  and  the  happy  frame  of  mind  each 
found  himself  in  at  the  hour  of  parting,  drew  from 
all  a  friendly  pledge  that  they  would,  for  the  year  to 
come,  drink  no  wine  or  intoxicating   liquors;    and 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  263 

that  they  would  use  their  influence   to  save  others 
from  their  use. 

Elsie  Magoon,  distant  though  she  was,  had  been 
the  inspiration  of  Lincoln's  evening  effort,  and  fer- 
vent were  the  thanks  his  heart  gave  her,  over  its  suc- 
cessful termination. 


CHAPTER    XXr. 

WELL,  I  do  say!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Deacon  Hill, 
as  she  came  from  the  porch  and  seated  herself 
befiife  the  eroiing  fire,  rolled  down  her  sleeves  and 
butfamed  the  bands  aroimd  her  wrist,  before  she  xoa^ 
up  her  gray-mixed  knitting  for  the  evening :  "  I  do 
say  ikat's  the  queerest  thing  yet." 

"  What  ?"  said  the  Deacon,  who  had  just  pat  <m 
his  "specs,"  and  opened  the  StuthiBe  Lmmtmary, 
fmpuatoTy  to  a  long  set-to  at  the  news. 

"  Why,  Pete  Jones  says  that  Elsie  Magoon  is  going 
to  give  a  lecture  on  Temporanc^  next  Tuesday  nig^ 
in  the  Methodist  Chorch ;  I  woold  n't  believe  a  word, 
only  that  it 's  in  the  papeis,  and  great  bills  is  stack 
up  adl  roand  town." 

''Pho,"  said  the  old  man,  "what's  the  world 
arcoming  to?"  and  he  fumbled  over  the  p^>er  and 
found  the  simple  notice  to  the  citizens  of  &nithville, 
that  Miss  Elsie  Magoon  would  address  then  cm  the 
sabject  of  T^nperance,  on  Toesday,  December  24th, 
in  the  M.  E.  Churdi.  "  There  it  k,  in  black  and 
white!"  said  the  Deaccm. 

''And  all  that's  in  the  paper  most  be  true," 
responded  Hel^i,  who  had  already  fiMind  her  place 
at  the  fire-side.  "  But  yoo  don't  catch  me  going  to 
hear  a  woman  make  a  speeA." 


THE    OLD    STILL- HOUSE.  265 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Deacon,  as  she  held  up  her 
knitting  between  her  and  the  fire,  to  pick  up  a  stitch. 
"  I  am  right  sorry,  I  am,  to  see  Elsie  gitting  so  crazy ; 
it  'pears  as  if  she  couldn't  be  content  to  do  like 
other  women.  There  was  lots  of  things  said  about 
her  going  there  to  the  White  Horse,  that  time,  and 
saving  Billy  Alison;  and  now  I  guess  they'll  say 
harder  things  than  ever." 

"Pho,  pho!"  said  the  Deacon,  looking  over  his 
spectacles ;  "  wonder  if  it 's  not  as  right  for  young 
women  to  talk  and  preach  if  they  want  to,  as  it  is  to 
be  for  ever  telling  their  'speriences  in  meeting." 

"No,  Deacon,  I  don't  think  it  is;  for  I  reckon 
when  St.  Paul  said,  '  Let  women  keep  silent  in  the 
churches,'  he  knew  what  he  was  about." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Deacon,  slyly,  "  I  guess  he  did ; 
and  when  he  said,  '  If  a  man  be  ignorant,  let  him  be 
ignorant,'  he  knew  jest  as  well.  And  particularly, 
he  was  wise  when  he  tell'd  the  women  about  wearin' 
gold  and  jewels,  and  sich  like ; "  and  the  Deacon  gave 
a  knowing,  mischievous  look  at  Helen's  great  ear- 
rings and  breast-pin,  which  were  glittering  in  the 
bright  fire-light. 

Helen's  blushes,  had  they  been  interpreted  by  a 
psychologist,  would  have  revealed  the  fiict,  that 
Calvin  Douglas,  the  young  Methodist  Circuit-rider, 
whose  father  was  rich  enough  to  allow  him  to  give 
presents  of  such  value,  was  the  very  servant  of  the 
Lord  who  had  disobeyed  the  injunction  of  Paul,  and 
hung  the  gold  and  jewels  through  the  pierced  ears 
23 


266'  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

of  Miss  Helen  Theresa  Hill,  who  had  returned  only 
a  few  weeks  before  from  boarding-school. 

"  Well,  Deacon,"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  in  the  motherly- 
wish  to  soften  her  husband's  wit  upon  their  daughter, 
"  I  reckon  things  ar'n't  as  they  used  to  be  in  them 
days ;  everybody  wears  jewelry  now,  that  can  get  it." 

"  I  know,"  responded  the  Deacon  ;  "  and  when  all 
the  women  get  to  talking  in  meeting,  and  going  down 
into  the  old  rum-holes  and  saving  the  poor  boys  from 
destruction,  you'll  be  saying  'It's  right  enough,'  and 
that  times  ain't  as  they  used  to  be  when  Paul  said, 
'  I  suffer  not  women  to  teach ; '  and,  '  Let  your  women 
keep  silence ; '  " —  and  the  Deacon  chuckled  heartily. 

"Why,  Deacon  Hill,  I  am  surprised  at  you  for 
speaking  so !  Do  you  raly  think  now,  that  it  is 
right  and  becoming  in  Elsie  Magoon  to  git  up  there, 
before  everybody,  and  go  to  talking  about  Temper- 
ance?" 

"  Sartain  I  do, —  for  whatever  Elsie  Magoon  does, 
she  does  well,  and  good  comes  of  it.  Where  do  you 
think  we'd  all  a-been  on  Temperance  now,  if  them 
wimmen  folks  of  Magoon's  hadn't  a-tuck  hold  of 
him,  and  that  'Old  Still-House'?" 

"Well,  I  know,  I  know;  but  then  this  lecturing  is 
a  little  too  much." 

"Pho,  pho,  wife!  can't  see  any  harm  in  it — mean 
to  go  and  take  Helen,  here ;  and  if  the  Parson  (and 
the  Deacon  called  up  Helen's  blushes  again  with 
another  wink  at  the  ear-rings)  says  anything  about 
it,  I'll  just  tell  him  that  whosoever  is  guilty  of 
breaking  one  commandment,  is  guilty  of  all." 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  267 

Helen  bent  over  her  embroidery,  and  made  no 
reply. 

"  By  the  way,  mammy,"  asked  the  Deacon,  "  how 
did  that  scrape  about  the  'White  Horse'  come  out? 
Did  Billy  stick?" 

'•  Ha'n't  drunk  a  drop,  they  say,  since  that  blessed 
Sunday  night.  He's  worked  for  Magoon  all  the 
fall ;  earned  flour  and  meat  for  granny,  and  got  up 
a  pile  of  wood,  nuff  to  last  her  all  winter." 

"Well,  that  was  pretty  well  done!  Guess  the 
neighbors  did  n't  make  anything  by  talking  'bout  her 
that  time." 

"No,  of  course,"  said  Helen,  a  little  mollified; 
"  all  the  stories  they  told  about  her  were  false." 

"  Guess  they  '11  get  over  this,  just  so,"  answered 
the  Deacon,  as  he  settled  himself  to  his  newspaper, 
and  was  soon  so  absorbed  in  the  political  drama  of 
the  day,  that  he  heard  no  word  of  gossip  tliat  still 
went  on  between  the  mother  and  daughter  in  an 
undertone,  as  each  pursued  her  evening  work. 

In  the  opposite  corner  from  the  one  occupied  by 
the  Deacon,  beside  a  small  stand,  with  a  solitary 
tallow  candle  upon  it,  —  the  mother  and  daughter 
sat  for  some  time  in  silence;  until  a  deep  sigh  from 
the  elder  caused  the  younger  to  look  up  from  her 
needle;  when,  to  her  surprise,  she  discovered  great 
tears  rolling  down  her  mother's  cheeks. 

"Why,  mother,  mother,"  she  whispered  gently, 
•'•'what  is  the  matter?" 

Mrs.  Hill  lifted  her  apron  and  wiped  away  the 
pearly  drops ;  then  answered  in  the  same  low,  mur- 
muring whisper: 


268  ELSIE  MAG  0  OX;     OB, 

"It  is  seven  years  to-night,  Helen,  since  your 
£ither  drove  poor  Fred  from  home,  and  bid  him 
never  let  him  hear  from  him,  or  see  him  again." 

**  So  it  is,"  mused  Helen.  "  Mother,  I  \ra5  only 
tliirteen  then, — and  I  know  I  thought  father  was 
more  to  blame  than  Fred, — and  you  know  Cither 
has  never  been  willing  that  we  should  talk  about 
him  since.  But,  mother,  do  you  think  his  offence 
was  80  very  terrible?" 

"It  was  very  wrong  for  Fred  to  speak  to  his 
&th^  as  he  did.  Yes,  Helen,  it  is  terrible  for  a  son 
to  call  his  &ther  a  liar,  before  a  room  full  of  com- 
pany. Bat  the  poor  boy  had  been  drinking,  and 
really  did  n't  know  what  he  said." 

"  Oil,  why  did  n't  he  ask  father  to  forgive  him,  and 
not  go  off  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  after  his  £itha*  struck  him  down 
80,  and  ordered  him  to  leave  the  house,  and  never  to 
oome  near  him  again,  Fred  thought  he  could  noL 
He  said  they  would  nevor  feel  right,  and  he  bad  best 
go  away  and  take  care  of  himselfl  Oh,  he  was  such 
a  good  boy,  and  smart  boy ;  he  'd  been  twenty-seven 
this  very  night,  if  he  'd  V  lived." 

"  Why,  mother,  he 's  not  dead-!  yoa  don't  think 
iMvther  Fred  is  dead  ?"  asked  Helen,  in  alarm. 

"Dead  to  me,  child, — dead  to  me,  when  I  can't 
eee  him,  nor  bear  him,  nor  tell  him  how  much  I  love 
him;"  and  the  true-hearted  moth«*  bent  her  head 
amd  wept  without  restraint- 
Helen's  tears  flowed  in  ^'mpathy.  For  thousrh 
imp^nous  and  positive  in  her  bearing,  she  was  kind 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  209 

and  gentle  when  her  heart  was  touched.  She  liad 
often  seen  her  motlier's  sad  tears  over  the  absence  of 
her  boy  —  whom  the  temptations  of  that  old  "Still- 
house  "  had  led  to  speak  unseemly  words  to  his  pa';- 
sionate  father,  who  was  laboring  under  the  same  ex- 
citement. It  was  at  an  evening  husking  that  the 
dispute  had  arisen.  The  unruly  tongue  had  angered 
the  father,  who  in  return  hastily  struck  him  a  blow 
more  heavy  than  he  had  intended,  and  ordered  him 
never  to  appear  again  in  the  house.  Gathering  up 
his  scanty  wardrobe,  he  prepared  to  depart.  The 
mother,  with  tears  and  sobs,  bade  him  adieu,  think- 
ing that  a  few  weeks  would  bring  him  back  penitent; 
and  with  her  last  embrace  prayed  as  a  mother  only 
can,  that  her  child  might  spurn  the  tempter,  and  save 
his  noble  heart  from  utter  wreck. 

Fred  Hill  was  a  boy  of  great  spirit,  and  of  much 
personal  beauty,  and  a  favorite  throughout  the  town. 
He  was  the  finest  scholar  in  school,  the  best  talker  at 
the  debating  club ;  and  he  would  not  allow  that  he 
could  not  drink  as  much  egg-nog,  or  toddy,  at  a 
husking  frolic  as  any  one.  He  drank  and  bectime 
mad,  and  went  forth  a  wanderer  from  the  home  of 
his  childhood, — and  so  the  mother's  tears  had  fallen 
in  her  quiet  lonely  hours,  through  the  seven  long 
years,  over  the  fate  of  her  lost  child.  He  had  never 
written.  They  had  heard  of  him  at  Cincinnati,  at 
New  Orleans,  but  only  that  somebody  had  seen  some 
other  body,  who  had  seen  Fred  Hill. 

"  Mother,"  asked  Helen,  speaking  still  lower,  and 
bringing  her  head  nearer  to  her  mother's  ear,  "  don't 
23* 


270  EL  SIE   MA  GOO  N;    O  R, 

you  tbink  Elsie  IMagoon  and  Fred  used  to  love  each 
other  very  much  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  they  did ;  but  liow  can  you  remem- 
ber it,,  you  were  only  a  little  child  then  ?" 

"Little  children  have  eyes  and  ears,  and  I  have 
always  remembered  one  circumstance.  Fred  had 
been  down  to  Cincinnati  with  a  load  of  corn,  you 
know,  along  with  Mr.  Thompson  ;  (it  was  just  before 
he  went  away ;)  and  when  he  came  home  he  was  stand- 
ing here  by  the  window,  and  I  saw  him  take  some- 
thing out  of  his  pocket,  and  take  up  the  corner  of  his 
coat  and  rub  it;  and  I  stepped  up  and  asked  him 
what  it  was.  He  said,  '  Oh,  nothing  much,'  and  put 
it  into  his  vest-pocket ;  but  when  father  asked  him 
to  bring  in  a  back-log  for  the  night,  he  pulled  off  his 
coat  and  vest  and  hung  them  over  a  chair,  and  I 
slipped  my  finger  into  the  vest-pocket,  and  found  that 
it  was  a  beautiful  ring.  That  night  he  went  to  sing- 
ing-school, and  the  very  next  day  I  saw  Elsie  Magoon 
have  that  ring  on  her  finger, — and  she  has  worn  it 
ever  since." 

"  Well ,  that  makes  me  think  of  a  good  many  other 
things.  —  And  Elsie  has  never  married,"  said  Mrs. 
Hill,  musingly. 

"  Some  people  think  she 's  going  to  marry  the  New 
Yorker  who  rode  with  her  to  the  '  White  Horse,'  the 
night  she  saved  poor  Willy  Alison." 

"Don't  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  with  spirit, 
speaking  louder  than  she  thought. 

"Don't  believe  what?"  asked  the  Deacon,  and 
started  up  from  his  paper. 


TEE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  271 

"  Don't  believe  that  James  K.  Polk  will  make  as 
good  a  President  as  Henry  Clay,  do  you  ?  "  answered 
his  wife,  looking  roguishly  in  the  fire. 

The  Deacon  was  a  strong  Democrat,  and  of  course 
started  off  in  a  tirade  of  invective  agcainst  the  other 
party,  relapsing  again  to  his  paper,  and  at  last  fell 
into  a  nap,  when  he  found  that  he  could  not  engross 
the  undivided  attention  of  his  small  audience. 

Elsie  delivered  her  lecture,  on  the  appointed  even- 
ing, to  a  crowded  audience;  for,  although  the  ma- 
jority of  the  towns-people  opposed  the  idea  of  a 
woman  speaking  in  public,  few  had  the  self-control 
to  deny  themselves  the  gratification  of  being  present. 

There  was  a  breathless  silence,  when  she  rose  before 
them.  Her  face  was  colorless  as  marble,  her  voice 
trembled  perceptibly,  and  her  lip  quivered  with  un- 
controllable emotion.  But  her  eye  was  calm  and 
clear,  her  heart  strong  in  purpose,  and  soon  self  was 
utterly  forgotten,  and  she  only  felt  conscious  of  the 
sacredness  of  her  opportunity  to  plead  the  cause  of 
temperance  to  a  people  who,  though  partially  re- 
deemed from  old-time  excesses,  were  loitering  far 
from  the  goal. 

Oh !  with  what  stirring  eloquence  she  besought  the 
fathers  and  mothers  to  come  forth  and  take  their 
stand  on  the  side  of  right ;  that  through  their  influ- 
ence and  power  the  young  might  be  saved  from  the 
gulf  which  now  yawned  beneath  their  unwary  feet. 

She  plead  for  the  suffering  wives,  the  helpless  chil- 
dren.    Pointed  them  to  the  past,  and  ran  over  in 


272  ELSIE   MA  GOO N;    OR, 

quick  succession  a  list  of  the  loved  and  lost,  whom 
most  of  them  had  known  and  mourned.  At  the  con- 
clusion, she  offered  a  simple  pledge,  and  asked,  "  Who 
will  put  their  names  here,  and  thus  say  to  the  world 
and  to  each  other,  they  are  ready  to  stand  over  against 
the  enemy  of  man  and  God  ?  " 

When  she  had  closed,  the  audience,  stilled  to  per- 
fect silence  by  her  power,  sat  as  if  im willing  to  break 
the  spell  that  bound  them.  At  length.  Deacon  Hill 
arose,  and  asked,  in  subdued  voice,  if  there  were  any 
clergyman  present  who  would  make  a  prayer.  Not 
one  responded,  although  the  faces  of  three  or  four 
were  seen  in  the  back  of  the  room.  But  this  prop- 
osition dissolved  the  spell  which  had  held  them,  and 
the  people  began  to  realize  where  they  were.  The 
pledge  was  placed  before  them,  and  they  rushed  for- 
ward to  place  their  names  upon  it,  by  scores, — and 
foremost  among  them  all,  the  landlord  of  the  "  White 
Horse." 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  exclaimed,  "  when  a  man  knows 
he 's  done  wrong,  the  best  way  to  atone  for  it  is,  not 
to  do  so  any  more.  So  here  goes  my  name.  Come 
on,  boys;  and  New- Year's  morning  we'll  make  a 
clean  sweep  of  it, — and  if  you'll  help  me  tumble  it 
out,  we  can  make  a  bonfire  of  the  cursed  stuff  on  the 
square." 

"  Hurrah !  hurrah !  hurrah  ! "  shouted  the  boys,  with 
wild  enthusiasm,  as  they  pressed  forward,  with  a  new 
impulse,  to  sign  their  names ;  and  before  they  left  the 
house,  three  hundred  of  the  men  and  women,  boys 
and  girls  of  Smithville,  had  pledged  themselves  to 
total  abstinence. 


THE    OLD    STILL-IIOUSE.  273 

All  this  while,  Elsie  had  her  head  upon  her  breast 
and  wept  in  silence.  Do  you  ask  why  she  Mcpt? 
She  wept  that  she  had  waited  so  long,  distrusting  the 
powers  that  God  had  given  her,  while  souls  were 
perishing  about  her.  Wept  over  that  weakness  of 
the  human  will,  that  sees  the  right,  yet  allows  the 
wrong  to  triumph.  Wept  that  she  could  not  rejich 
loftier  heights  of  truth  and  wisdom,  and  attain  that 
calm  self-poise,  that  purity  and  strength,  which  she 
felt  conscious  she  should  need  in  this  great  conflict 
with  evil  which  she  had  now  so  resolutely  begun. 

The  true,  earnest  spirit  is  always  humbled  by  its 
triumphs.  While  the  world  sends  up  its  impulsive 
huzzas,  and  offers  its  tumultuous,  or  more  dignified 
approval,  the  struggling  soul  feels  the  more  keenly  its 
own  weakness,  in  the  warmth  of  its  newly-awakene<l 
zeal, — longs  the  more  intensely  to  be  worthy  of  the 
praise  it  wins,  by  nobler  deeds  and  loftier  living.  So 
felt  Elsie,  as  she  rode  home  by  the  side  of  her  father ; 
and  as  they  sat  round  the  farm-house  fire  after  their 
return,  Elsie  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  her 
mother  broke  the  silence. 

"  Elsie,  my  child,"  she  said,  with  unusual  fondness 
in  her  tone,  "  you  have  reason  to  feel  very  proud  of 
your  work  to-night." 

"  Proud !  mother ;  how  can  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  Certainly  you  have  produced  a  deep  impression." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  stirred  the  surface ;  but,  mother,  I 

would  stir  the  waters  to  their  very  depths ;  stir  them 

till  their  impurities  shall  roll  to  the  surface  with  a 

fearful  vividness  of  pressure  that  will  admit  of  no 


274  ELSIE   MAG  0  OS. 

loud  'huzza,'  no  noisy  applause.  I  am  thankful  for 
having  troubled  even  the  surface.  But  my  work  is 
deeper,  and  self-denial  and  sacrifice  must  meet  me  at 
every  turn." 

She  rose  and  clasped  the  hands  of  her  parents  in 
her  own.  "  Let  me  have  your  love  and  blessing,  and 
I  shall  be  strong  to  meet  them  all ;  "  —  and  her  day's 
labor  was  crowned  by  the  hearty,  tearful  blessing  of 
both. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

A  DIVISION  of  the  "Sons  of  Temperance  "  had 
just  gone  into  operation  in  the  town  of  Smith- 
ville,  and  was  doing  a  noble  work.  But  they  refused 
to  recognize  the  right  of  woman  to  hibor  publicly  in  the 
cause,  although  Elsie  Magoon  had  brought  members 
into  their  organization,  and  done,  apparently,  more  by 
her  influence,  than  all  others.  Ministers  stood  in  their 
desks,  and  spoke  strangely  severe  and  censuring  words 
of  the  gentle  girl  who  was  winning,  with  persuasive 
eloquence,  the  young  and  the  thoughtless  from  the  er- 
rors and  temptations  that  were  leading  them  to  ruin. 

Petty  persecutions,  wicked  misrepresentations,  will- 
ful perversions  of  truth,  followed  her  day  and  night, 
and  made  her  sometimes  weep  bitter  tears  in  silence 
and  solitude.  But  not  for  an  hour  did  she  quail 
before  her  persecutors,  or  regret  the  steps  she  had 
taken.  The  voice  of  Christ  seemed  ever  near,  "  As 
ye  would  that  others  should  do  unto  you,  do  ye  even 
so  unto  them."  She  knew  that  she  was  striving  for 
the  highest  good  of  her  fellows,  and  her  conscience 
upbraided  her  not  for  using  methods  not  hitherto 
employed  by  her  sex,  but  entirely  proper  in  them- 
selves, and  successful  in  her  hands. 

"  Shall  I,"  she  cried,  "  who  can  win  one  soul  as 
precious  as  Willy  Allison's  from  the  haunts  of  vice, 

(276) 


276  ELSIE    MAG  DON;     OR, 

faint  or  fail  because  of  the  sneers  of  the  sinful  or  the 
heartless  ?  " 

She  heard,  sometimes,  of  unkind  words  and  bitter 
jests  at  her  expense,  dropped  from  lips  which  once 
never  spoke  of  her  but  in  her  praise.  Parson  Simpson, 
who  had  succeeded  young  Manford,  was  bitter  in  his 
opposition ;  and  to  the  plea  that  slie  was  eloquent, 
and  was  doing  good,  his  answer  uniformly  was : 

"  '  Though  she  speak  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel,' 
I  will  anathematize  her  work,  for  it  is  unchristian. 
St.  Paul  has  said, '  Let  your  women  keep  silence  in  the 
churches  ; '  ( he  quite  forgot  to  tell  them  to  whom  St. 
Paul  was  writing.)  Her  apparent  good  works  are 
of  the  devil." 

Orders  called  "Daughters  of  Temperance"  were 
multiplying,  but  they  also  refused  to  recognize  the 
efforts  of  Elsie  as  in  harmony  with  their  own. 

Despite  all  this  active  opposition,  the  fame  of  the 
new  lecturer  spread  far  and  near,  and  she  was  fre- 
quently invited  to  address  the  people  of  neighboring 
towns. 

One  hot  August  day,  as  she  was  travelling  through 
the  hills  to  meet  an  appointment  in  an  obscure  country 
town,  where  the  people  had  become  liberal  through  the 
influence  of  the  numerous  Quakers  among  them,  she 
stopped  at  the  roadside  to  get  a  draught  of  cool  water 
from  a  well  which  stood,  with  its  unpretending  curb 
and  bucket,  before  the  door  of  a  log  farm-house.  An 
old  man,  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat  drawn  over  his 
eyes,  sat  upon  the  step. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  277 

"Can  we  get  some  cool  water  here?"  asked  her 
companion. 

"  Sartain,  sure,"  answered  the  old  man ;  "  and  you 

can't  git  nothing  else,  —  ain't  a  better  well  in 

county.'^ 

"  Well,  that  is  good  news,  for  we  are  very  thirsty." 

"  Then  water  is  the  thing  to  cure  you.  But  don't 
get  out;  I'll  fetch  it." 

"  That 's  too  much  trouble  for  one  so  old." 

"  I  ain't  too  old  to  give  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  a 
weary  feller-critter  travelling  in  this  hot  sun,"  re- 
sponded the  old  man,  as  he  whirled  the  old  oaken 
bucket  to  the  bottom  of  the  well.  "It's  mighty 
little  I  can  do  now  for  the  folks ;  but  I  've  seen  the 
day  when  I  could  do  as  much  as  anybody." 

The  windlass  soon  wound  the  bucket,  dripping 
with  its  sparkling  contents,  to  the  top  of  tlie  ground, 
and,  filling  a  large  white  bowl,  the  old  man  approached 
the  carriage.  As  he  came  near,  and  lifted  up  his 
face  to  the  travellers,  Elsie  recognized  an  old  laborer 
of  her  father's,  who  had  left  the  "  Still-house "  ten 
years  before,  a  beastly,  wretched  drunkard,  whose  wife 
had  fled  from  him  long  before  that,  and  gone,  no  one 
knew  where,  to  get  out  of  his  reach. 

As  long  as  he  could  do  anything,  he  had  loitered 
about  that  den  of  pollution  and  shame ;  but  when 
his  hand  had  become  so  palsied  that  he  could  no  longer 
work, — when  he  lay  in  the  fence-corners,  imbecile  as 
a  log,  and  the  swine  rooted  him  about  and  tore  his 
flesh, — then  the  overseers  of  the  poor  took  liim  away 
24 


278  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

to  the  county  poor-house,  and  she  had  heard  of  him 
no  more. 

«  Why,  Mr.  Bell,"  exclaimed  Elsie,  "  is  this  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  this  is  me.  But  who  are  you?  It  seems 
like  I  'd  heerd  that  voice  afore  to-day." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  have.  Look  up  and  see  if  you 
don'i  know  me." 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  and,  shading  his  dim, 
bleared  eyes  with  his  old  withered  palm,  looked  her 
steadily  in  the  face. 

"Know  you?  Why,  Lord  bless  me!  yes,  I  do; 
yes,  I  do ;  it 's  Elsie  Magoon,  the  distiller's  daughter, 
who  always  spoke  a  kind  word  to  the  old  drunkard. 
God  bless  ye !  How 's  your  ma  ?  "  and  the  old  man 
seized  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  shook  them,  and 
laughed  and  wept. 

"Come,  come;  you  must  get  out  and  rest;  you 
must — I  can't  take  no.  The  old  woman  lives  here 
with  me,  and  Tom  and  little  Kate.  She  ain't  little 
now,  but  as  pretty  a  great  gal  as  ever  ye  see.  You 
must  stop ;  it 's  nigh  noon,  and  the  old  woman  has  a 
chicken  for  her  pot,  and  a  pot  for  the  fire,  and  a  fire 
for  it  all ;  for  I  don't  drink  any  more,  Miss  Elsie. 
But  come  out  with  ye  now.  Rachel,  here ! "  he 
called,  and  forth  came  the  old  wife,  with  her  neat 
white  cap  and  checked  apron. 

"  There,  old  gal ;  do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"Why,  la!  yes;  it's  Elsie  Magoon;  w^ho'd  'a' 
thought  it?  Where  did  ye  come  from,  and  where 
be  ye  going  ?  "  was  asked  in  a  breath,  as  the  travellers 
were  ushered  into  the  neat  room  of  the  farmer's  home. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  279 

"  I  am  from  Smithville,  Mrs.  Bell,  and  am  going 
to to  lecture  on  temperance." 

"  That 's  right !  that 's  right !  "  almost  shouted  the 
old  man ;  "  that 's  what  the  women  ought  to  do.  Look 
at  my  old  gal  there;  luiinH  she  suffered f  Didn't  I 
curse  her, — and  beat  her — and  starve  her,  —  and 
frighten  her, — and  beat  the  children,  —  and  pour 
whiskey  down  their  throats,  to  make  her  suffer, — and 
get  up  nights  to  drink,  and  then  throw  the  dregs  of 
the  cup  into  her  face  and  eyes,  while  she  lay  asleep 
with  her  baby  in  the  bed? — and  didn't  I  drag  her 
round  the  floor  by  the  hair,  till  I  made  her  give  birth 
to  a  noble,  great  boy,  that  died  by  my  hand  ?  and  yet 
men  let  me  go  on,  till  she  ran  off,  like  Hagar,  into 
the  wilderness  with  her  children — fled  here — alone 
—  out  of  the  world;  and  the  few  settlers  and  neigh- 
bors rolled  her  up  that  old  log  cabin  you  see  yonder ; 
and  there  she  set  up  her  loom,  and  spun,  and  wove, 
and  worked, — till  she  paid  for  this  bit  of  land,  and 
took  care  of  Tom  and  Kate;  while  I  —  like  a  beast 
— was  sucking  at  that  old  plug  down  at  the  hollow, 
till  the  hogs  rooted  me  about  like  a  dead  dog ;  and  if 
I  hadn't  been  steeped  in  whiskey — which  even  the 
hogs  can't  bear — they'd  have  eat  me  up,  every  ehrod 
of  me,  body  and  bones,  for  all  my  will ;  but  they  ran 
away  in  disgust.  Ah  !  Miss  Elsie,  it  was  your  sainted 
mother  that  had  me  took  up  that  cold  day,  and  drove 
me  home  on  the  fodder-cart,  and  lodged  me  in  the 
old  corn-house,  bound  up  my  wounds,  and  then  sent 
me  to  the  poor-house  to  get  me  out  of  reach  of  the 
"  old  Still ; "  and  then  she  wrote  to  Tom  here,  who 


280  ELSIE    MAG  O  OK;     OR, 

was  twenty  years  old  then,  —  his  mother  had  been 
away  ten  years, — and  he  came  and  told  me  if  I'd 
behave  he  would  bring  rae  home  and  take  care  of  me ; 
and  so  I  came,  ten  years  ago.  Miss  Elsie, — and  I  've 
not  had  a  drop  since,  nor  I  don't  want  it,  neither ; 
and  you  may  ask  Rachel  there  if  I  have  n't  tried  to 
atone  for  my  sins."  The  old  man  paused  for  breath, 
and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  has,"  said  the  wife,  in  gentle 
tones,  looking  kindly  upon  him  as  he  sat  before  her. 

"The  old  gal  never  loved  me  drunk,  —  and  never 
did  anything  else,  when  I  was  sober,"  responded  the 
farmer,  while  tears  of  joy  and  penitence  mingled 
together  and  stole  their  way  from  his  red-rimmed 
eyes.  "You  see  my  eyes;  they  are  almost  blind, 
most  burned  out  with  whiskey.  There,  Rachel,  let 
me  lift  that  pot ;  I  am  stronger,  I  guess,  than  you ; " 
and  he  sprang  to  her  side  and  lifted  the  heavy  dinner- 
pot  from  the  crane,  and  then  set  out  the  table ;  and 
while  he  helped  spread  the  ample  repast,  talked  gar- 
rulously of  his  efforts,  and  trials,  and  victories. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  exultingly, "  I  am  a  free  man. 
Miss  Elsie,  and  nobody's  debtor,  and  no  longer  a 
slave  to  Rum !  I  have  earned  five  hundred  dollars 
this  last  year  with  my  tools ;  and  I  have  put  it  in 
bank,  in  her  name,  (pointing  to  his  wife,)  for  fear  I 
might  be  tempted  agin.  Kate  is  keeping  school,  and 
I'm  going  to  send  her  to  college, — and  she  shall  be 
a  temperance  lecturer ;  yes,  she  shall ;  I  never  thought 
of  that  before.  But  she  shall, — she  can  talk  like  a 
book,  and  she  shall  tell  all  the  world  how  her  old 


THE    OLD    STILL-nOUSE.  2S1 

father  cursed  his  whole  household  and  brought  ruin 
and  sorrow  on  them  all." 

The  old  man,  generous  and  tender-hearted  by  na- 
ture, covered  his  face  and  wept  at  the  thoughts  his 
last  words  recalled. 

"  There,  there,  Jacob,"  said  his  wife  tenderly,  "  lot 
by-gones  be  by-gones.  You  're  good  now,  and  would 
never  have  been  a  bad  man,  if  whiskey  had  n't  tempted 
ye." 

How  the  thoughts  of  the  wrong  done  by  that  old 
"Still-hoase"  smote  upon  Elsie's  heart! 

"  I  must  struggle  for  the  right,"  was  her  inward 
cry.  "  If  children  are  visited  with  the  iniquities  of 
the  fathers,  then,  too,  it  is  the  children's  duty  to  strive 
to  undo  the  wrongs  that  their  misguided  parents  have 
done." 

This  incident  made  a  deep  impression  upon  her. 
She  compared  the  now  gathered  family,  living  in 
peace  and  plenty,  in  harmony  and  love,  with  the 
shattered,  miserable  household  of  ten  years  ago  ;  the 
wife  and  mother  then  bearing  her  burdens  alone,  the 
father  of  her  children  a  f^rim^anZ/  steeping  her  pil- 
low at  night  with  bitter  tears,  and  rising  to  find  the 
day  darkened  with  forebodings,  lest  his  wandering 
steps  might  lead  him  to  the  door  of  her  humble  home, 
to  seize,  under  the  law  of  the  land,  all  her  hard- 
earned  savings  as  his  own. 

"  Oh  !  to  redeem  one  such  misguided  soul  is  open- 
ing the  door  of  heaven  for  wony,  is  it  not?"  she 
asked,  as  she  left  the  door  with  their  blessings  upon 
her  head ;  "  those  children,  and  their  children,  and 
21* 


282  ELSIE   MAG  O  ON. 

their  neighbors !  TVTio  shall  tell  where  the  inflaoice 
of  sach  a  work  will  end  ?  " 

"Only  in  eternity,  Miss  Elsie;  only  in  eternity  I " 
answered  the  woman,  with  a  look  that  told  how  much 
she  had  soared  and  how  much  she  had  gained. 

And  Elsie  went  her  way,  strengthened  anew  fijr 
her  work. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THERE  was  a  great  bustle  in  the  farm-house  on 
the  first  of  May,  1845.  Ducks,  turkeys,  and 
geese,  had  looked  their  last  on  the  bright  skies  and 
fresh  green  clover-fields,  and  lay  side  by  side  on  the 
kitchen-table,  trussed  up  in  their  comfortable  fatness, 
and  ready  for  the  oven  and  the  spit.  Girls  were 
busy  —  busy  as  bees  —  beating  the  whites  of  eggs  to 
foam,  or  putting  butter  and  sugar  into  good-natured 
relations  with  each  other,  till  they  grew  so  close  a 
union,  that,  as  old  Nora  Sweeney  said,  "  Sure  it  was 
nobody  could  be  telling  which  from  tither." 

Old  Nora !  she  whom  we  knew  long  ago, —  though 
her  head  is  white  as  snow,  her  face  wrinkled,  and 
her  hands  trembling  and  weak,  can  still  scour  knives, 
and  dust,  and  sweep ;  and  put  a  gloss  on  the  carpet 
strips,  and  door-sills,  "  with  any  on  'em."  So  she 
says. 

Her  husband  has  been  gone  this  many  a  year. 
The  "  Old  Still-House  "  was  the  death  of  him.  One 
cold  January  night  he  had  been  to  get  his  jug  filled ; 
it  was  Saturday,  and  how  could  he,  poor  droughty 
soul,  get  on  over  Sunday  without  a  wee  drop,  to 
warm  his  spirits,  and  keep  him  cheerful?  It  was 
dark  when  he  reached  the  dram-shop,  and  he  was 
numb  and  cold.     A  dram  gave  him  comfort,  and  the 

(283) 


284  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

good  fire  under  the  grate  thawed  him  out ;  so  he  sat 
and  chatted  with  old  Scruggs  until  ordered  off  home. 

Tlie  gallon  jug  was  already  much  lightened,  but 
before  he  ascended  the  great  hill,  he  stopped  and  took 
another  "swig."  Half  way  up  he  seemed  to  have 
paused  again,  probably  for  the  same  purpose,  as  his 
staggering  foot-marks  on  the  snow  the  next  day, 
indicated.  There  had  been  a  fall  of  snow  in  the 
morning,  and  a  light  rain  at  noon,  which  had  filled 
all  the  pools  and  ruts,  and  left  the  snow  still  upon 
them.  The  wind  blew  up  cold,  and  now  it  was 
freezing  fast ;  at  the  top  of  the  hill  he  staggered  back 
and  forth  again,  showing  that  he  had  halted  for  the 
third  dram.  Now  he  was  thoroughly  drunk.  The 
footprints  ran  from  side  to  side,  sometimes  long, 
sometimes  short,  till  he  reached  a  turn  in  the  road, 
where  the  swine  had  rooted  out  a  wallowing  place  in 
the  summer,  which  was  now  full  of  water.  He  could 
probably  keep  his  footing  no  longer,  and  fell  head- 
long, his  face  breaking  through  the  fast-forming  ice, 
and  sinking  in  mud  and  water  over  his  ears,  leaving 
only  the  back  of  his  head  above  the  surface. 

Here  he  had  died,  and  was  found  in  the  morning 
his  face  buried  in  the  ice. 

Old  Nora  rose  early  and  went  to  find  him, — whether 
she  really  felt  troubled  for  his  safety,  or  only  lest  she 
should  not  get  her  share  of  the  contents  of  the  jug, 
no  one  knew. 

She  says  she  was  "  warned  in  the  night  by  a  quare 
drame  that  something  mighty  awful  had  happened 
him."     Terrified  and  screaming,  she  had  hastened  to 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  285 

Mrs.  Magoon,  who  Avas  her  refuge  in  all  time  of 
trouble. 

Old  Pat  was  taken  up  and  decently  buried,  and 
old  Nora  ever  after  lived  at  the  Magoons,  and  did 
such  work  as  she  was  able.  Pat's  death  left  a  fearful 
impression  on  her  mind ;  or  not  so  much  his  death, 
as  that  he  died  drunk,  and  in  the  manner  he  did. 

"  Indade,  it  was  no  honor  till  him,  either  here  or 
hereafter ! "  was  her  constant  remark,  when  the  sub- 
ject came  up 

So,  on  this  fii-st-of-May  morning,  old  Nora  was  the 
busiest  of  them  all ;  scouring  the  candlesticks,  the 
knives  and  forks,  the  door-knob,  the  hand-irons,  the 
fenders,  and  any  thing  that  would  glow  and  brighten 
under  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Magoon  walked  about,  overlooking  the  vari- 
ous workers,  in  her  usual  quiet  way ;  but  it  could  be 
easily  seen  that  a  s5d  feeling  was  tugging  at  her  heart- 
strings. 

It  was  the  first  marriage  under  the  roof-tree  of  the 
old  homestead.  Alice,  her  good  kind-hearted  Alice, 
was  to  leave  her, —  to  be  no  more  by  her  side.  And 
though  her  heart  yielded  cordially  to  the  claim  of 
young  Walters,  she  could  not  altogether  quiet  her 
motherly  regrets  and  anxieties,  nor  repress  her 
womanly  tears. 

Mary  was  bright  as  a  sky-lark  in  a  June  morning, 
and  warbled  her  song  of  love,  up-stairs  and  down, 
as  with  fairy  fingers  she  toadied  everything  with 
fresher  beauty,  and  imbued  the  household  with  her 
own  cheerful  spirit.     Frank  was  at  home  with  his 


286  ELSIE    MA  GO  ON;     OR, 

bonny  young  wife,  and  his  sweet  young  babe.  George 
had  plenty  to  do ;  and  Elsie  was  supreme  manager 
in  the  kitchen,  and  maid  of  honor  in  the  dressing- 
room.  Many  were  the  jokes  played  off  upon  her  as 
"the  incorrigible  old  maid,"  but  she  laughed  as 
cheerily  as  the  rest,  and  told  them  "  her  time  would 
come  some  day." 

It  had  been  quite  generally  believed  that  Albert 
Lincoln  and  Charley  Walters  were  going  to  bear 
away  both  the  sisters  on  the  same  evening, — as  the 
postmaster  did  not  fail  to  circulate  through  the 
neighborhood  an  exact  report  of  the  letters  received 
monthly  from  the  city  by  both  young  ladies. 

Mr.  Magoon  sat  feeble  and  pale  in  his  arm-chair 
by  the  parlor-fire ;  he  was  sad.  He  had  held  a  long 
talk  with  his  wife,  the  purport  of  which  may  be 
drawn  from  the  following  conversation  between  Elsie 
the  elder  and  Elsie  the  younger,  as 'they  stood  together 
in  the  bridal  chamber  after  the  last  touches  had  been 
given, —  Elsie,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  left  arm 
around  the  post,  as  with  downcast  eyes  she  listened 
to  the  words  of  her  mother. 

"  I  do  not  even  say  I  wish  it,  Elsie ;  but  you  are 
now  twenty-six  years  of  age,  Mr.  Lincoln  is  devoted 
to  you,  and  he  seems  devoted  to  the  cause  of  truth, 
too ;  every  temperance  paper  is  giving  new  assurances 
of  his  goodness  and  popularity.  You  would  risk 
nothing,  I  think,  if  you  could  only  feel  justified  in 
giving  him  your  hand ;  and  your  father  desires  it  so 
much." 

"  Why  should  he,  mother  ?  " 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  287 

"  Because  he  likes  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  would  be 
made  happy  by  seeiug  you  united  to  one  who  seems 
to  be  so  unalterably  attached  to  you.  He  feels  as 
though  you  were  almost  perverse." 

"  Mother,  you  would  not  ask  me  to  marry  where  I 
do  not  love?  And,  also,  though  there  are  few  men 
in  this  world  whom  I  hold  in  higher  esteem  than 
Albert,  yet  I  cannot  love  him  as  I  must  love,  if  I 
ever  marry. 

"  Elsie,  you  know  I  do  not  urge  you,  but  your 
father  is  so  feeble  and  nervous,  and  your  coldness  in 
this  matter  puzzles  and  irritates  him." 

"Mother,  do  you  remember  Fred  Hill?"  asked 
Elsie. 

"  Oh !  yes." 

"You  know  we  were  always  friends;  I  have 
always  loved  and  trusted  him.  I  don't  think  from 
the  time  we  were  fourteen  until  his  unfortunate  de- 
parture, we  ever  had  a  secret  from  each  other.  I  love 
him  still,  and  wear  on  my  finger  the  ring  he  gave  me 
as  a  pledge  of  love  and  faith.  I  cannot,  cannot 
marry,  until  I  know  his  fate. 

"  He  is  probably  not  living,  my  child." 

Elsie  shuddered.  "  He  may  not  be,  but  if  he  is, 
and  should  return  after  these  long  years  of  wander- 
ing— return  as  faithful  as  I  know  he  is — to  find  me 
wedded  to  another,  —  mother,  would  not  my  life  be 
accursed  ?  " 

"  But  what  makes  you  think  he  is  faithful  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,  and  I  feel  that  he  is  not  dead.  I  beg 
you,  therefore,  mother,  do  not  ask  me  again  to  marry 


288  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

Lincoln ;  if  he  is  not  strong-liearted  enough  to  live 
without  me,  in  a  life  of  usefulness,  he  is  not  strong- 
hearted  enough  for  me." 

"  I  will  not  urge  you,  my  child.  You  are  right, 
I  feel,  but  your  father  will  be  offended." 

"  Do  not  speak  to  him  of  Fred.  Let  that  secret 
rest  between  you  and  me ; "  and  Elsie  arose,  and  went 
on  steadily  with  the  wedding  arrangements. 

Mrs.  Magoon  went  to  communicate  the  result  of 
her  mission  to  Richard,  who  had  quite  set  his  heart 
upon  the  union  of  Elsie  with  Lincoln. 

"And  what  did  she  say?"  he  asked  nervously. 

"That  she  cannot  possibly  consent  to  marry 
Lincoln." 

"  What  does  possess  the  girl ! "  he  exclaimed,  pet- 
tishly. "  Here  is  a  young  man,  educated,  travelled, 
rich,  and  talented ;  and  she  refuses  to  marry  him." 

"  It  cannot  be  helped,  husband ;  she  does  not  love  him" 

"Fudge!"  said  Richard,  impatiently;  that's  the 
effect,  mother,  of  a  woman's  getting  out  of  her  sphere — 
one  of  her  Utopian  notions.  She  is  getting  so  much 
praise,  that  her  brain  is  turned.  She  is  absorbed 
in  her  own  fame." 

The  mother  longed  to  tell  him  the  truth,  but  she 
dared  not ;  so  she  only  answered,  "  Richard,  do  not 
misjudge  our  faithful,  noble  daughter ;  if  she  chooses 
to  live  singly,  and  do  the  work  that  seems  to  be 
waiting  her  hands,  shall  we  call  it  ambition  and  love 
of  fume  ?  May  not  a  woman  live  single  after  the 
ordinary  time  that  women  usually  marry,  as  well  as 
a  man?" 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  289 

"  If  she  is  a  mind  to  make  herself  such  a  simple- 
ton, I  suppose  she  can,"  answered  Richard,  pettishly. 

Mrs.  Magoon  saw  how  much  he  was  disappointed, 
and  thought  that  a  silent  hour  would  best  calm  him : 
so  she  slipped  away  quietly,  to  attend  to  duties  that 
required  her  care 

Richard  sat  looking  into  the  fire.  What  should 
he  say  to  Lincoln,  who  was  expected  that  night? 
Lincoln  had  written  to  him,  and  to  the  mother,  beg- 
ging them  both  to  intercede  for  him  with  their 
daughter. 

Mr.  Magoon  had  been  delighted  with  his  proposal, 
and  greatly  pained  that  Elsie  would  not  accede  to  it ; 
and  had  this  morning  asked  for  a  final  decision. 

But  it  was  time  to  drive  over  to  Smithville,  for 
the  two  young  men  who  were  to  arrive  that  evening ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  on  his  way,  guiding 
his  spirited  team  with  his  usual  calm  hand. 

I  am  not  going  to  describe  the  meeting  of  Alice 
and  Charley ;  I  was  not  there ;  and  you  who  have 
met  your  "Charley"  under  similar  circumstances, 
will  know  all  about  it ;  those  who  have  not,  should 
not  have  their  curiosity  gratified  until  their  own  time 
comes. 

Lincoln  and  Elsie  were  to  wait  upon  the  bride 
and  groom.  A  beautiful  pair  they  were,  as,  hand  in 
hand,  they  entered  the  parlor.  He  was  pale,  oh,  how 
pale !  but  the  vigorous  soul  within  still  beamed  from 
his  lustrous  eyes. 

Elsie  had  met  him  the  evening  before,  and  told  him 
frankly  that  her  heart  was  not  his ;  that  as  a  brother 
25 


290  ELSIE   MA  GOON. 

and  friend  she  should  always  love  him,  but  in  no 
other  light. 

"  Is  there  no  hope?" 

"  None ! "  she  answered,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
her  womanly  sympathy. 

"  God  help  me ! "  he  gasped,  "  to  learn  to  bear  this 
disappointment  manfully." 

'*  Let  us  be  friends/'  said  Elsie. 

"Aye,  more  than  that,  brother  and  sister,"  he  an- 
swered, involuntarily.  Their  lips  met  to  seal  the 
compact ;  and  they  parted,  to  meet  hereafter,  only  as 
friends,  faithful  in  the  great  work  of  life,  that  en- 
grossed them  both — the  cause  of  human  redemption 
from  the  thraldom  of  intemperance. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

OH !  these  weary  days  and  niglits,  these  long-drawn 
hours  of  pain,  that  no  medicine  can  alleviate,  no 
care  or  nursing  make  lighter.  How  long,* oh !  how 
long  are  they  to  last?"  exclaimed  Richard,  as  he 
turned  with  a  deep  groan  on  his  bed,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  his  pale  wife,  who  sat  writing  by  a  window. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Richard,"  asked  Mrs. 
Magoon,  laying  down  her  pen  and  springing  to  his 
side. 

"  Yes,"  was  his  prompt  reply,  as  she  stood  holding 
his  hand  between  hers;  "yes, — there  is  one  thing, 
Elsie." 

"What?  Richard;  what  can  I  do?" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  and  fixed  his  eyes,  those  deep, 
firm,  intent  gray  eyes,  upon  the  face  he  had  loved  so 
long.  His  spirit  seemed  struggling  within  him; 
struggling  for  the  mastery  over  pride,  which  almost 
refused  to  speak  what  he  felt  should  be  spoken. 

Again  Elsie  asked,  "  What  is  it,  Richard  ?  do  not 
hesitate  to  tell  me, — for  I  will  do  anything  in  my 
power  ;  "  she  passed  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  drew 
his  head  to  her  throbbing  heart. 

"  Will  you  promise  to  do  what  I  ask  ?" 

(291) 


292  EL  SIE    MAG  0  0  X;    O  i?, 

"Most  surelv  I  will,  —  if  it  is  in  my  power, 
Richard.  Why,  what  have  I  done  that  should  make 
you  distrust  me  ?  " 

"You  have  done  everything,  wife,  that  a  human 
being  could  do,  for  my  comfort ;  but  this  that  I  am 
about  to  ask  will  be  laying  too  hea%'T  a  burden  upon 
you,  I  fear." 

"  Well !  let  me  hear  what  it  is.  I  have  promised, 
you  know,  and  I  seldom  break  my  word." 

She  spoke  gayly,  but  her  heart  was  full  of  sadness, 
as  she  looked  down  on  his  wan,  dying  face. 

"  I  want  you  to  \rrite  my  life." 

"  T  ?  Oh,  no,  Richard ;  you  don't  wish  me  to  do 
that!     How  could  I?" 

"  Yes, —  I  want  you  to  write  my  life.  To  tell  the 
world,  as  you  only  can,  of  the  danger  of  attempting 
to  do  evil  that  good  may  come.  To  tell  how  miser- 
able, even  from  my  first  step,  the  building  of  that 
*  Old  Still-House'  has  made  me ;  how  I  groaned  and 
tossed  to  and  fro  upon  my  bed,  that  first  awful  night 
after  the  poor  mutilated  body  of  Scott  was  laid  in 
his  coflBn ;  how  the  very  iron  pierced  my  soul,  when 
his  poor  wife  plunged  into  his  grave  in  frantic  mad- 
ness and  grief;  how  I  scorned  your  prayer  to  stop 
then,  when  I  might  have  stopped ;  how  I  smothered 
conscience,  spurned  the  right,  and  went  on  my  way. 
Tell  them  how,  like  demons,  the  staggering  forms  of 
my  neighbors  and  friends  came  in  nightly  dreams  to 
taunt  and  reproach  me  for  the  withering  curse  I  had 
made  for  them." 

"Oh,  no!  Richard!" 


THE    OLD    STILL-noUSE.  203 

"Yes, —  yes, —  write  it  down,  write  it  as  you  can 
write ;  for  you  know  liow  I  have  siitrerctl." 

"  I  ?  how  could  I  know,  Richard  ?  you  did  not 
tell  me." 

"  By  the  throes  of  agony  in  your  owu  heart  ! 
Do  you  think  you  had  a  real  paug  that  I  did  not 
suffer?" 

"  I  did  not  know  ! " 

"  Aye,  I  knew  well  that  you  did  not, —  but  let  me 
go  on  now,  while  I  have  strength ;  now,  while  we 
are  both  alone.  Write  out  the  story  of  Henry,  of 
Mike,  of  that  anguished  widowed  mother,  and  the 
crushing  of  her  hopes,  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  of  the 
death  of  the  beautiful,  innocent  Emma, —  oh!  my 
God,  spare  me  now,  let  me  not  think  of  that;"  and 
the  poor  sufferer  covered  his  face  witli  his  hands  iji 
an  agony  of  emotion.  "And  you,  Elsie, —  oil !  Elsie, 
—  I  must  leave  alone,  alone  in  the  world  !  No,  not 
alone;  for  our  beautiful  children,  whom  your  pre- 
cept and  example  have  led  into  all  that  is  good  and 
noble,  are  with  you.  But  /  must  go,  Elsie, —  /  who 
promised  to  be,  and  who  should  have  been,  your  pro- 
tector and  helper  to  the  end.  I  must  die,  slain  by 
my  own  hand  ! " 

"  Be  calm,  Richard,"  said  his  wife ;  "  you  are  not 
strong  enough  to  talk  of  these  things." 

"I  shall  never  be  stronger,  my  wife,  than  now. 
Let  me  speak  on.  Tell  them  all, —  every  wrong  that 
you  have  ever  known,  that  had  its  origin  in  that 
'Old  Still-House;'  and  when  you  have  finished  the 
black  catalogue  of  crimes,  and  the  world,  the  cold, 

25* 


294  ELSIE    MAG  0  OK;    OR, 

severe  world,  is  ready  to  cry  oat,  of  its  utter  hatred 
to  the  human  race,  because  I  was  oue  of  them ;  then, 
begin  a  new  cliapter,  and  tell  them  wliat  has  ]>ccn 
done  for  temperance  since  that  fearful  liour,  when  I, 
a  prisoner  to  my  own  household,  learned  to  be  a  sober 
man.  How  East  and  West,  and  Xorth  and  South, 
on  the  wings  of  the  morning  have  floated  the  songs 
of  rejoicing,  over  a  land  awaking  from  its  long  sleep 
of  crime  and  wrong.  Tell  them  how  you  and  others 
have  struggled;  and  how,  while  others  rested  from 
their  labors,  you,  with  your  ever  ready  pen,  have 
plead  and  prayed,  and  striven  to  rescue  the  tempted, 
the  suffering  and  lost.  Write  it  all,  all,  all, —  all 
ypur  labors  and  your  prayers,  all  the  self-sacrifice  of 
our  noble  child ;  of  the  martyrdom  —  Hmt  is  the 
word  —  which  she  has  suffered  day  by  day,  that  she 
might  undo  some  portion  of  the  wrongs  that  I  had 
done." 

"Don't  speak  of  that,  my  husband,  let  me — " 
"  Yes,  I  will  speak  now  —  lest  I  never  have  time 
or  chance  to  speak  again.  Tell  all ;  and  then  add  a 
third  chapter,  longer  even  than  the  other  two,  of  the 
three  years  of  patient  endurance,  of  nursing  and 
watching,  of  love  and  duty,  which  you,  too,  have 
shown  here  at  my  bedside.  Tell  all  that  I  have 
suffered, —  leave  out  not  one  pang  or  groan,  for  every 
wail  of  agony  shall  prove  a  sermon  from  your  pen 
against  intemperance ;  for  each  and  every  one  had  its 
origin,  in  the  violation  of  ray  own  conscience  and 
the  laws  of  nature  and  of  God ;  in  doing  what,  in 
my  soul,  I  knew  was  wrong,  while  I  was  laying  the 


THE    OLD    STILL- HOUSE.  295 

plaster  of  worldly  wisdom  and  philosophy  upon  tlie 
smarting  wound,  in  saying  to  myscU",  '  /  am  not  my 
brother's  keeper  —  if  lie  will  give  his  money  for  that 
which  destroys  him,  what  is  it  to  me  f  Tell  the  young, 
the  old,  the  middle-aged,  how  intemperance  planted 
the  disease  in  my  manly  frame,  which  has  been  eating 
out  my  life  for  fifteen  years ;  until  now,  at  sixty,  I 
must  die, —  die  the  victim  of  my  own  wrong.  Tell 
them  of  my  repentance  too,  of  the  struggle  I  have 
made  for  a  higher  life.  Tell  them  that  my  angel 
wife  and  daughter  have  saved  me;  and  that  God, 
through  ray  repentance  and  reform,  has  spoken  j)eace 
to  my  soul.  But  fail  not  to  show  above  all  things 
the  fearful  truth,  that  the  body  must  die  of  Us  own 
sins.     Will  you  write  all  this  for  me  ?  " 

"  Richard,  I  have  said  I  would  grant  your  request, 
if  I  could ;  but  you  are  too  sick  now,  too  much  racked 
with  pain,  to  talk  of  it ;  wait  until  you  are  more  easy, 
and  your  mind  more  calm." 

"  Elsie,  I  am  as  easy  now  and  as  calm  as  I  shall 
ever  be ;  and  I  again  repeat  it,  every  pain  and  suf- 
fering through  these  long,  long  three  years,  had  its 
origin  in  that  'Old  Still-House'  now  rotting  to  the 
ground;  and — " 

A  fearful  pain  racked  the  poor  dying  man,  who  had 
for  three  years  been  stretched  upon  his  IxhI,  from  a 
disease,  said  by  his  physicians  to  have  had  its  origin 
in  the  use  of  alcoholic  drinks. 

"  A  weaker  constitution,"  said  Dr.  Lee,  his  attendant, 
"  would  have  failed,  ere  half  his  career  was  run,  but 
he  will  die  by  inches.     Had  his  life  been  at  all  times 


296  ELSIE   MAG  0  OX;    OR, 

temperate,  fourscore  years  would  have  found  him, 
no  doubt,  still  at  the  post  of  duty,  doing  good  work 
for  future  generations." 

Elsie  laid  him  back  gently  upon  his  bed ;  his  eyes 
closed  and  a  shudder  passed  over  his  frame.  The 
lips  quivered,  and  all  was  still.  In  affi-ight,  Elsie 
called  for  her  daughter,  who  had  lain  down  to  rest  in 
the  next  room. 

"Oh  !  mother,  is  he  gone,  our  beloved  father?" — 
exclaimed  the  cliild ;  "  let  us  bless  Grod,  that  his  pains 
are  ended." 

As  she  spoke,  his  eyes  opened  once  more.  With  a 
sudden  effort,  he  raised  himself  almost  from  the  bed. 

"Yes!  bless  Grod,  my  child,  that  my  pains  are 
ended.  Oh  Father !  receive  my  spirit.  Elsie — wife 
— daughter — all  of  you,  farewell, — the  body  has 
lived  out  its  penalty,  and  the  soul  is  free ;  farewell." 

He  sank  back  again  upon  his  pillow,  his  lips 
moved,  and  in  indistinct  murmurs  were  heard  the 
words,  "write  —  write — write  it  all;"  and  with  a 
pleasant  smile  playing  over  his  wan  features,  as  if  he 
rejoiced  in  his  release,  and  saw  some  beautiful  vision 
of  his  fiiture,  his  soul  passed  away. 

The  scene  just  described  transpired  in  the  spring 
of  1851,  six  years  after  the  marriage  of  Alice  and 
Walters,  as  described  in  the  last  chapter. 

We  left  Richard,  then  a  nerv^ous  invalid.  Day  by 
day  had  his  pains  increased,  and  his  weakness  kept 
pace  with  them,  until  years  after,  while  on  a  visit  to 
his  daughter,  in  Pliiladelphia,  a  surgical   operation 


THE    OLD    ST  ILL-HOUSE.  207 

revealed  the  fact,  that  a  fearful  cancer,  the  effect  of 
the  irritation  of  his  stomach  and  vital  organs  by 
alcohol,  must  end  his  life. 

He  talked  much  with  his  patient  nurses,  his  wife 
and  daugliter  Elsie,  who,  through  the  long  three 
years,  had  never  been  both  absent  from  his  sick-room. 

It  seemed  an  ever  present  thought  with  him,  to 
do  something  or  say  something  to  warn  the  thought- 
less and  unwary  against  destroying  the  l>eautiful 
temple  in  which  God  had  seen  fit  to  shrine  the 
spirit.  "  Let  them  both  be  kept  pure,"  he  would  say, 
"  to  the  end."  "  Oh  !  if  men  could  learn  to  appreci- 
ate the  body  as  well  as  the  soul,  how  soon  would  the 
world  be  redeemed  from  its  glaring  sins.  The  temple 
must  be  kept  holy  and  pure ;  for  it  also,  as  the  spirit, 
is  of  God. 

Elsie,  the  mother,  was  yet  active  and  strong ;  and 
though  lonely  in  her  widowhood,  foldal  no  idle  hands 
in  grief;  but  still  took  charge  of  the  home,  and  with 
her  domestic  duties  and  public  efforts  filled  the  hours 
to  the  brim. 

Frank  was  among  the  foremost  men  of  his  time, 
and  as  a  member  of  the  constitutional  convention  of 
Ohio,  in  1850,  stood  forth  boldly  as  the  champion  of 
temperance. 

George,  in  a  far  city  of  the  West,  was  leatling  a 
gallant  band  in  warfare  against  the  hydra-headed 
monster  which  in  all  new  countries  is  so  destructive 
to  public  moi-ality  and  peace.  Young  Heath  was 
active  in  the  same  cause  in  California.  Henry,  the 
youngest,  was  pursuing  his  college  studies  in  an 
Eastern  city. 


298  EL  SIE   MAG  00  N;    O  li, 

Mary  had  become  the  wife  of  young  Heath,  and 
gone  with  him  to  tlie  land  of  gold.  The  care  of  the 
loved  old  farm  fell  upon  Elsie,  who,  equal  to  every 
emergency,  proved  herself  invaluable  as  a  manager 
of  it. 

Old  Nora  had  been  gathered  to  her  kindred,  and 
she  and  Granny  Alison  lay  side  by  side  in  a  quiet 
nook  in  the  corner  of  the  churchyard,  at  Maple  Grrove, 
where  Elsie  had  planted  the  wild  spring  flowers  and 
the  willow.  Jenny,  the  pure-hearted  little  grand- 
daughter, had,  like  other  girls,  been  wooed  and  won, 
and  now  held  undisputed  control  of  the  little  garden 
and  home ;  and  still  made  the  old  loom  do  its  work, 
in  weaving  carpets  for  the  neighbors. 

Helen  Hill  was  still  single,  and  the  principal  of  a 

flourishing  seminary  in  W .     The  Deacon  and  his 

wife  jogged  on  in  life,  every  day  growing  into  truer 
harmony,  now  that  the  mischievous  habit  had  been 
utterly  abandoned. 

Mrs.  Hill  had  her  odd  ways ;  but  she  was,  nevcp- 
theless,  a  good  woman,  and  in  the  infancy  of  her  boys 
and  girls  had  taught  them  faithfully  the  way  of  right. 
Blunt  and  plain  were  they,  but  honest  and  true ;  and 
her  heart  rested  in  her  labors,  except  when  she  thought 
of  Fred,  for  whom  she  still  yearned. 

The  Falconers  had  followed  their  now  beloved  son- 
in-law,  who,  by  a  lifetime  of  self-sacrifice  and  devo- 
tion to  the  good  of  his  fellow-men,  was  trying  to 
w^ash  out  that  dark  stain  of  his  early  youth  that  never 
failed  to  send  a  shadow  over  his  face  when  it  was 
called  to   mind.     He  was   rich   and  fortunate,  and 


TUE    OLD    STILL- no  USE.  299 

gave  with  liberal  hand.  The  temperance  reform  li:i<l 
no  truer  friend. 

The  Trumans  were  scattered,  doing  as  well  as  they 
could  be  expected  to  do,  with  their  early  tniining  and 
hereditary  tendencies.  Smithville  w;us  without  a  grog- 
shop ;  and  it  was  often  said  there  was  no  more  moral 
town  in  the  State.  The  Seminary  that  I^Isie  startetl 
was  still  a  thriving  institution  J  and  an  institute  for 
boys  stood  on  the  site  of  the  old  warehouse,  where 
the  Fourth-of-July  sufferers  had  found  a  temporary 
refuge. 

Elsie  was  now  over  thirty  years  of  age;  but  so 
harmonious  and  true  had  been  her  life,  that  one 
would  not  have  supposed  her  over  twenty-five.  The 
prettiness  of  eighteen  had  given  place  to  a  more 
attractive  beauty.  She  had  chiselled  her  face  with 
high  and  holy  thought.  Day  by  day  the  truthful- 
ness and  beauty  of  her  life  had  been  impressecl  upon 
her  features,  and  so  radiant  were  they  with  gootlness, 
purity,  and  truth,  that  the  stranger  who  passed  her 
upon  the  street  paused  to  ask  her  name  and  to  learn 
something  of  her  character. 

Elsie  had  been  in  correspondence  with  many  ear- 
nest workers  in  the  temperance  cause,  and  among 
them  were  men  and  women  who  felt  that  its  best 
interests  require<l  the  establishment  of  an  organization 
which  should  follow  the  type  of  the  family,  and  rwv 
ognize  equally  both  sexes,  in  its  privileges  and  duties. 
And  thus  came  into  existence  the  "  Order  of  Good 
Templars — Christian  knights — who  reverence  the 
saying  of  the  Master,  that  "  In  Christ  Jesus  there  is 
neither  male  nor  female." 


CHAPTER     XXIX. 

WALTER  HEATH  was  young,  ardent,  and  am- 
bitious. The  slow  process  of  making  wealth 
in  the  older  States  found  no  favor  in  his  enthusiastic 
mind;  and  in  1848  he  had  left,  with  his  bride — then 
in  her  twentieth  year — for  the  distant  Eldorado  — 
California.  Mary  was  delicate  and  spiritual ;  sensi- 
tive to  an  extreme,  that  had  made  her  life  almost  a 
Borrow;  shrinking  and  fearful,  without  strength  or 
nerve;  beautiful  as  the  white  lily  that  droops  over 
the  stream,  and  as  fragrant  and  frail  as  that  far-famed 
flower. 

For  the  first  year  or  two  the  pair  seemed  to  prosper 
well.  A  beautiful  little  daughter  brought  sunshine 
to  the  mother's  heart,  and  helped  to  reconcile  her  to 
separation  from  the  loved  ones  at  the  old  home. 
Eveiy  mail  brought  letters  from  them,  and  every  mail 
carried  out  others  to  them.  In  1853  came  news  of 
the  entire  destruction  of  all  Heath's  property  by  fire. 
The  letter  of  Mary  was  a  sad  moan.  The  mother  of 
three  children — with  shattered  health — now  in  pov- 
erty ;  and  worst  of  all,  Walter,  whom  she  looked  to 
as  her  ideal  of  all  that  was  good  and  beautiful,  had, 
in  this  hour  of  fearful  trial,  proved  too  weak  to  bear 
the  burden  of  misfortune  laid  upon  him,  and  was 
striving  to  subdue  his  melancholy  in  the  exhilarating 

(300) 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  ?,y\\ 

bowl.     The  letter,  so  full  of  sadness  and  trouble, 
ended  thus : 

"  Oh !  Elsie,  my  sister,  can  you  not  come  to  us  ? 
1  know  it  is  a  long  way,  and  full  of  dangers  and 
trials;  but  your  spirit  is  brave  and  strong;  you 
saved  him  once  for  years.  Oh !  how  often  has  he 
said,  in  our  happy  and  prosperous  days,  *  I  owe  all 
that  I  am  to  sister  Elsie.  I  was  going  to  destruction 
as  fast  as  a  thoughtless  self-indulgence  could  carry 
me,  and  but  for  her  timely  care  should  have  finished 
my  wild  career  long  ago.  How  she  watched  nic; 
plead  with  me ;  found  me  out,  till  I  was  forced  to 
yield.'  Think  of  it,  my  sister.  Come  to  us  now  in 
our  days  of  tribulation.  Come,  oh !  come;  'save  the 
father  to  the  mother  and  children.' 

"  What  shall  I  do,  mother?"  aske<l  Elsie,  as,  with 
tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks,  she  finished  the 
letter. 

"Another  victim  of  that  'Old  Still-House,' "  said 
Mrs.  Magoon,  sadly,  as  she  slowly  paced  back  and 
forth  before  the  fire,  on  the  chilly  March  morning. 
*'No  man  more  perseveringly  encouraged  your  father 
in  continuing  his  work,  than  Judge  Heath ;  and  I 
have  often,  when  Walter  was  a  boy,  seen  his  father 
put  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  allow  him  to  drain  the 
dregs  of  sugar  from  the  bottom.  Your  father  always 
sent  him  a  barrel  of  his  best  whiskey." 

"  Yet,  Judge  Heath  never  was  a  drunkard?"  said 
Elsie,  inquiringly. 

"  No,  never.     But  many  a  poor  fellow  has  gone  to 
the  penitentiary  by  his  decisions,  that  was  less  a  dram- 
26 


302  ELSIE   MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

drinker  than  he;  and  could  perhaps  trace  his  first 
steps  in  wrong  to  the  indirect  influence  of  that  in- 
fluential man.  But,  Elsie,  you  must  go  to  our  dear 
Mary.  She  is  unfit  to  grapple  with  so  many  enemies, 
alone." 

"  What  will  you  do,  mother,  while  I  am  away  ?  It 
will  take  a  long  time." 

"  Oh !  never  mind  me,  —  I  am  hale  and  strong, — 
and  if  you  were  not  so  much  better  able  to  do  the 
work  that  needs  to  be  done,  I  should  go  myself." 

"You,  mother?" 

"  Certainly ;  a  woman  at  sixty  is  in  the  prime  of 
life,  if  she  has  lived  with  proper  care;  and  if  it  wxre 
not  for  the  fallacy  that  women  of  my  age  must  begin 
to  lay  themselves  upon  the  shelf,  there  is  many  a 
woman  who  would  be  worth  twice  herself  at  twenty, 
because  of  her  gathered  experience  and  judgment. 
It  is  a  great  pity,  Elsie,  that  the  world  Avears  itself 
out  so  soon." 

So  it  was  resolved  at  once  that  Elsie  should  go  to 
California. 

Helen  Hill  was  at  home  on  a  visit,  and  it  chanced 
that  she,  her  mother,  and  Elsie,  sat  chatting  by 
the  parlor  fire  of  the  old  homestead,  one  bright  even- 
ing, a  short  time  before  Elsie's  departure.  They  had 
been  talking  of  the  past,  and  Mrs.  Hill  had  given 
utterance  to  the  yearning  of  her  mother's  love  for  her 
long-lost  boy. 

"  Five  years  it  is.  Miss  Elsie,  since  I  have  heard 
of  him,"     Elsie  started. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  heard  so  lately  as 
that." 


THE    OLD    STILL. HOUSE.  303 

"Yes,  five  years  ago,  last  autumn,  he  wrote  to  \\U 
father,  asking  if  he  would  receive  him,  if  he  should 
return." 

"And  what  did  the  Deacon  say?"  asked  Elsie, 
anxiously. 

"  Oh  !  it  was  so  cruel.  He  enclosed  his  letter,  and 
wrote  him  back  :  Never  to  let  him  hear  from  him 
again.     That  he  never  could  or  would  forgive  him." 

"And  what  did  he  say  of  himself?"  asked  Elsie. 

"  We  don't  know.  Father  would  never  let  us  see 
the  letter,  for  fear  we  should  answer  him.  Oh  !  my 
poor  forlorn  boy,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Hill ;  "  I  think  ho 
is  dead  now."  ' 

"  He  is  not  dead  ! "  spoke  the  old  voice  to  Elsie  ; 
yet  she  dared  not  give  comfort  to  the  mother.  How 
could  she,  when  she  could  only  say,  "  it  is  a  thougiit, 
a  feeling  "  ? 

"  But  why,"  she  asked  again,  "  is  the  Deacon  so 
determined?" 

"  Because,"  answered  Helen,  "  it  is  a  matter  of 
conscience  that  his  word  must  never  be  broken  ;  and 
he  has  so  often  said  that  he  would  never  forgive  poor 
Fred,  that  now  he  thinks  it  would  be  wrong  to  yield. 
But,  mother,  do  not  weep.  If  Fred  lives,  we  shall  see 
him  again.     If  he  Ls  dead,  let  us  try  to  feel  it  well." 

We  will  not  tarry  to  trace  Elsie's  plea.sant  land- 
journey, —  her  visit  to  Alice  in  her  city  home,  where 
she  met  Lincoln,  still  unmarried, —  a  cheerful  phi- 
lanthropist and  earnest  reformer.  Had  Elsie  Ijeen  a 
woman  of  the  ordinary  stamp,  he  would  have  renewed 


304  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

his  supplications  and  begged  on  bended  knees  for  per- 
mission to  endeavor  to  win  the  love  which  he  would 
have  laid  down  his  life  to  possess. 

But  like  a  true  woman,  she  gave  to  every  look,  and 
tone,  and  gesture,  that  calm  dignity,  yet  kindly  friend- 
ship, that  precluded  the  slightest  thought  of  a  renewal 
of  the  subject.  Aye,  even  more  than  that,  —  it  sub- 
dued the  passion,  while  it  purified  and  harmonized 
the  love,  till  she  became  to  him  a  sacred  thing ;  an 
altar  for  no  profane  worship,  but  upon  which  to  lay 
his  highest  and  holiest  thoughts. 

When  he  bade  her  farewell,  on  .the  deck  of  the 
steamer  at  New  York,  he  could  not  forbear  saying, 
"  I  cannot  endure,  dear  Elsie,  to  see  you  going  out  to 
sea  alone ;  were  it  as  easy  to  make  perfect  the  tie  of 
brother  and  sister,  as  that  of  husband  and  wife,  I 
would  beg  to  go  with  you  as  a  protector  and  brother." 

"A  woman  who  cannot  protect  herself,  Mr.  Lin- 
coln, in  these  days,  when  men  treat  women  with  so 
much  kindness,  is  scarcely  worth  protecting,  if  she 
be  not  ignorant  and  weak.  You  have  a  larger  and 
nobler  work  to  do,  than  to  waste  your  time  on  one 
poor  body  like  me." 

Lincoln  looked  pained,  and  turned  to  go. 

"Bless. you,  however,  for  your  kind  intentions," 
she  added  quickly,  looking  cheerfully  into  his  face, 
" and  write  me  at  San  Francisco, — will  you  not?" 

"  I  will,  most  certainly." 

The  ship  weighed  anchor,  the  great  wheels  com- 
menced their  motion,  and  ere  Lincoln  reached  the 
shore,  the  gallant  bark  was  standing  out  to  sea;  while 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  305 

Elsie  turned  away  into  a  corner  of  the  saloon,  to  give 
vent  to  a  few  womanly  tears. 

Perhaps  no  passenger  ever  had  a  more  pleasiint  f)r 
more  prosperous  voyage,  than  our  heroine.  Tho 
weather  was  propitious,  and  the  passengers,  thoutrh 
numerous,  were  either  naturally  of  the  most  amiable 
class,  or  made  so  by  their  surroundings.  Elsie  w:us 
like  a  sunbeam  to  that  great  crowd,  who  were,  for  the 
most  part,  floating  away  from  country,  home,  and 
friends. 

Some  in  search  of  'fortunes,'  not  knowing,  poor 
fools !  that  to-day's  fortunes  shall  be  a  life  of  hopes 
lost  to  them. 

Some  in  search  of  friends;  or,  like  Elsie,  going 
forth  to  lift  the  burden  from  a  loved  heart. 

Wives  in  seai'ch  of  husbands,  who  had  left  home, 
children,  all  that  was  dear  to  them,  for  gold. 

But  among  them  all  —  no  husband  searching  for  a 
wife — no  father  his  daughter — no  son  his  mother. 
The  truants  and  wanderers  were  all  on  the  male  side. 

The  days  flew  rapidly  by,  and  brought  them  at 
last  safely  into  port. 

Elsie  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  home  of  her 
sister  in  San  Francisco.  Mr.  Heath,  as  a  merchant, 
had  been  well  known,  and  in  his  prosperous  days  well 
beloved.  Creditors,  who  would  have  driven  a  bad 
man  from  their  door,  bore  with  him,  for  the  gooilness 
that  was  in  him,  and  the  hope,  that  some  who  loved 
him  still  cherished,  that  he  would  reform.  His  wife, 
too,  so  gentle  and  amiable,  so  earnest  to  help  herself, 
claimed  the  sympathy  of  old  friends;  and  they  still 

26* 


306  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;    OR, 

kept  the  house  wliicli  they  enjoyed  before  the  misfor- 
tune, although  stripped  of  its  luxuries  and  adorn- 
ments, which  went  out  day  by  day  to  procure  food 
for  the  family,  or  drink  for  him,  —  the  largest  propor- 
tion for  the  latter. 

An  Irish  servant-girl  answered  the  door-bell,  and 
led  Elsie  through  the  cheerless,  uncarpeted  hall,  to  an 
inner  room. 

"  Just  be  taking  a  seat,  Miss ;  it 's  a  bad  way  Mis- 
tress Heath  is  in,  to  be  sure,  the  day." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Elsie,  her  heart 
beating  almost  audibly. 

"Och  !  thin,  it's  nothing  uncommon  at  all  for  the 
likes  of  him.  You  see,  mem,  he'd  been  drinking 
hard,  and  last  night  he  gets  hisself  into  a  scrape,  and 
they  takes  him  off  to  the  calaboose — " 

"  Oh !  my  poor  sister,"  exclaimed  Elsie,  clasping 
her  hands  in  sadness.  "  Go,  tell  her  a  friend  from 
the  States  wants  to  see  her." 

"And  axing  your  pardon — hain't  ye  the  sister 
she's  been  praying  for?" 

"  I  am  her  sister." 

The  girl  bounded  away,  three  steps  at  a  leap,  and 
Elsie  followed  as  fast  as  her  faltering  limbs  would 
carry  her,  and  left  her  time  only  to  cry  out,  —  "And 
sure  it's  your  sister,  darlint,  that's  come  to  spake 
pace  to  you." 

Oh !  what  a  meeting  was  that !  The  poor  frail 
mother,  wailing  like  a  sick  child,  lay  on  her  sister's 
breast,  sobbing  out  her  sad  tale  of  suffering  and 
wrong. 


THE    OLD    STILL-IIOVSE.  307 

Elsie  did  not  stop  to  think  of  herself,  nor  of  the 
long  fatigue  of  her  journey.  She  kisscxl  the  pale 
cheek  again  and  again  ;  and  with  comforting  words 
tried  to  still  the  clamor  of  the  little  ones. 

"  Oh !  my  sister,  they  are  starved ;  all  the  day  we 
have  had  no  food.  He  left  us  without  a  cent,  and 
how  could  I  go  out  to  ask  help  with  this  great  trouble 
upon  rae.  Every  hour  I  have  looked  for  him. 
Hush,  hush,  my  poor  children." 

Elsie  drew  out  her  purse,  and  dispatched  the  faith- 
ful Bettie  for  food;  then,  with  the  old  impulse  to 
fondle  the  once  petted  one  of  the  home,  she  drew  out 
her  comb  and  smoothed  back  the  long  masses  of 
beautiful  hair  that  hung  around  the  white  neck  and 
shoulders, —  chatting  the  while  of  home  and  kindred, 
neighbors,  and  other  pleasant  things,  to  still  the 
aching  heart. 

Bettie  soon  returned  with  all  the  necessaries  of  a 
frugal  mail ;  and  when  it  was  ready,  rang  the  tea- 
bell,  with  all  the  energy  of  other  and  better  days. 

The  little  ones  were  in  ecstasies, —  but  alas  !  poor 
Mary,  though  half-famishing,  had  no  desire  to  eat 
or  drink.  The  fate  of  her  husband  was  still  a 
mystery ;  and  although  his  conduct  had  been  so 
unworthy  of  late,  she  still  cherished  a  hope  that  ho 
Avould  return  to  the  paths  of  rectitude.  She  could 
not  think  that  he  had  done  anything  very  criminal, 
so  strong  was  her  faith  in  him. 

She  suggested  it  as  probable  that  he  had  Iwen 
taken  to  the  calaboose  for  brejiking  windows,  or  some 
like  rowdy  conduct;  "for,"  she  said,  "his  exhilaration, 


308  ELSIE  M AGOG N;     O J?, 

when  lie  has  been  indulging,  is  •wonderful, —  he  is 
like  a  mad  boy.  I  sometimes  fear  he  will  kill  the 
children  with  his  pranks." 

While  they  were  talking,  Bcttie  was  called  to  the 
door  by  a  man  who  came  to  inform  them  that  Heath's 
crime  was  of  a  more  serious  nature.  He  had  been 
arrested  for  murder.  "  There  had  been  a  man  killed 
by  the  discharge  of  a  revolver, —  some  by-standers 
said  that  Heath  fired  it, —  others  that  it  went  off  of 
itself  He  came  by  the  request  of  a  gentleman,  to 
let  Mrs.  Heath  know  how  matters  stood.  Maybe  if 
his  wife  were  there,  it  would  help  him,  he  said." 

The  man,  whom  Bettie  knew  to  have  been  a  dray- 
man in  Mr.  Heath's  employ,  departed ;  and  Bettie, 
uncouth  as  she  was,  had  wit  enough  to  know  that 
her  mistress  must  not  be  unceremoniously  told  his 
errand. 

"  Who  was  it,  Bettie  ?  "  languidly  asked  Mary. 

"Only  a  man  asking  after  one  Kitty  O'Phelan, 
ma'am,  that  used  to  live  along  this  block  somewhere; 
and  it  was  nothing  I  knew,  to  be  telling  him;  but 
niver  a  bit  would  he  be  off  till  I  sprung  the  door 
into  his  face,  the  spalpeen.  Shure  he  might  know 
that  I  had  something  to  do  as  well  as  hisself." 

Bettie  fluttered  about  the  dishes,  waited  on  "  the 
childer,"  talked  and  scolded,  and  finally  broke  out : 

"  Indeed,  Mistress,  it 's  no  use  in  the  born  world 
for  you  to  be  sitting  here;  shure,  now,  you'll  be 
swooning  away  like  as  ye  did  the  ither  day ;  just  git 
back  to  the  parlor  now,  and  lave  me  to  care  for  the 
childer." 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  309 

Mary,  who  was  extremely  weak,  followed  the  rude 
advice,  so  kindly  given,  and  suffcrwl  Bettie  to  lead 
her  back  into  the  parlor ;  where  she  left  her  salely 
in  bed,  for  the  parlor  and  bed-room  had  become  one. 

"  What  is  it,  Bettie  ?  "  exclaimed  Elsie,  as  soon  as 
she  returned. 

"  Och !  thin  it 's  wourse  than  I  thought.  Mr. 
Heath  is  charged  with  murther." 

"  With  murder  ?  How, —  when, —  where  ?  "  Elsie 
sprang  to  her  feet  in  alarm. 

"  Sure  I  did  n't  learn  exactly  whin,  nor  where. 
Jimmy  Regan  it  was  that  called  out  of  good-will,  to 
say :  '  Tell  Mistress  that  there  was  a  scuffle  like,  in 
the  strate,  and  a  gun  went  off  and  shot  a  man  stone 
dead,  and  there  was  some  as  said  it  was  Mr.  Heath 
that  did  it.' " 

"  Oh  !  thou  invisible  spirit  of  Rum  !  if  thou  hast 
no  other  name  to  be  known  by,  let  us  call  thee 
'Demi!' "  exclaimed  Elsie,  springing  from  the  table 
with  energy. 

"  And  troth,  ye  may  well  say  that,  for  it 's  a  devil 
he  is  in  liquor.  Sure  isn't  it  from  a  bating  he  gave 
her  the  other  night,  that  the  poor  creature  is  so  sick 
now?" 

"  Beating  ?     Did  WaUer  Heath  beat  his  wife  f  " 

"  Faith,  thin,  he  did,  and  the  children  too,  and 
driv  me  out  of  the  house.  It 's  a  devil  he  is  in  drink, 
shure." 

"  Mary  must  know  nothing  of  this,  Bettie.  Where 
is  the  justice's  office,  and  the  jail?" 

"Will,  thin,  Jimmy  Regan  said  it  would  be  down 


310  EL  SIE    MA  GOON;     0  R, 

to  the  Racorder's ;  and  troth,  he  did  n't  name  the 
strates." 

Elsie  made  all  haste,  and  sent  Bettie  for  a  cabman, 
who  would  know  where  to  drive  her ;  and  went 
directly  to  the  place  where  her  poor  wretched  brother- 
in-law  was  reported  to  be  undergoing  his  trial.  She 
made  inquiry  of  a  policeman  at  the  door,  and  found 
that  it  was  as  the  drayman  had  said,  and  the  investi- 
gation was  now  going  on.  Elsie  drew  her  veil  closely 
over  her  face,  and  entered  the  room.  The  crowd 
gave  way  before  her,  supposing  her  his  wife ;  and  one 
of  the  attorneys  placed  her  a  chair  near  the  prisoner. 

Walter  was  so  changed  that,  had  she  not  known 
she  was  to  find  him  there,  she  would  not  have  recog- 
nized him.  His  beautiful  complexion,  once  so  clear 
a  red  and  white,  was  now  crimson  and  purj)le;  and 
his  fine  blue  eyes,  lurid  and  blood-shot.  His  hands 
hung  listlessly  between  his  knees — his  fine  form 
drooping  from  weariness  and  exhaustion. 

Elsie's  emotion  almost  overcame  her,  but  by  a 
strong  effort  of  her  will  she  subdued  every  outward 
sign,  and  sat  calmly  as  the  examination  proceeded. 

The  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  testified  to  the 
death  of  Mr.  Hunt,  a  famous  gambler  and  roue,  by 
a  pistol-shot.  There  were  three  or  four  engaged  in 
the  affray.  The  pistol  belonged  to  Mr.  Hunt,  but 
Heath  had  threatened  to  kill  him.  The  witnesses  for 
the  defendant  testified  to  a  row, — that  Hunt  drew  his 
revolver,  gave  it  to  Heath,  and  told  Heath  to  '  shoot 
if  he  wanted  to,'  at  the  same  time  abusing  him  as  a 
coward  and  a  drunkard.     That   Heath   made  some 


THE    OLD    STILL-nouSE. 


311 


aggravating  reply.  Hunt  then  seized  hold  of  him, 
and  in  the  scuffle  the  pistol  was  discharged,  lodging 
the  contents  in  the  neck  of  Hunt,  cutting  ofl"  tiie 
jugular  vein,  and  causing  almost  immaliatc  death. 

Elsie  had  taken  little  notice  of  any  one  but  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar,  and  the  witnesses  as  they  came 
forward.  But  now  a  figure  arose  before  her  that  even 
more  than  Walter  Heath  stirred  her  decjK'st  emotions. 
As  he  came  to  the  side  of  the  besottetl  man,  an<l  stood 
there  in  his  manly  strength  and  health,  he  looketl  in 
the  contrast  like  an  angel  of  light. 

A  man  of  most  winning  face,  with  the  mildest 
eye,  and  hair  of  glossy  brown ;  a  high  broad  forehead, 
and  upon  every  feature  the  stamp  of  humane  feeling 
and  undaunted  will. 

When  he  arose  to  speak,  there  was  a  general  mur- 
mur and  rush  forward,  as  if  the  crowd  outside  was 
pushing  upon  the  crowd  within,  to  hear  him,  and  the 
people  closed  round  the  chair  in  which  Elsie  was 
sitting, — shutting  out  her  view  of  the  judge,  the 
prisoner,  and  his  counsel, — and  also  preventing  the 
tremor  which  shook  her  frame  like  a  genuine  ague, 
from  being  noticed  by  the  by-standers. 

"Can  it  be  possible?"  she  thought;  "have  I  seen 
those  eyes,  that  brow,  that  face?"  Her  heart  stood 
still.  The  house  whirled,  the  light  grew  dim,  and 
her  head  drooped  against  the  back  of  a  man  who  did 
not  heed  the  weight.  When  her  senses  returnetl,  a 
rich  voice  was  pouring  forth  a  stream  of  elwjuence, 
that  hushed  the  house  into  entire  silence.  She  had 
never  heard  that  voice, — its  full,  round,  rich  tones 


312  ELSIE   MAG  0  OX;    Oli, 

were  new  to  her,  and  her  heart  sank  again, — but  her 
ears  grew  dull  no  more. 

Oh !  what  a  speech  was  that  to  the  gaping  crowd. 
A  speech  full  of  truth,  of  beaut}',  and  temperance. 
After  summing  up  the  evidence  of  the  witnesses,  and 
showing  from  the  reports  of  the  coroner  and  physi- 
cians, that  the  wound  must  have  been  made  while 
Mr.  Hunt  was  stooping  forward,  and  might  have 
been  the  result  of  the  scuffle  while  he  held  the  weapon 
in  his  own  hand,  he  proceeded  to  detail  the  character 
of  the  prisoner  before  he  took  to  the  practice  of  drink- 
ing ardent  spirits.  He  called  to  mind,  in  the  most 
severe  yet  polished  manner,  the  late  conflict  upon  the 
liquor  question;  alluded  in  the  most  studied  and 
gentlemanly  terms  to  the  position  held  in  that  con- 
flict by  the  judges,  and  incumbents  of  office  through 
the  city;  appealed  to  the  people  whether  it  were  just 
to  place  a  snare  for  the  feet  of  the  unwaiy,  and  then 
to  punish  the  poor  A^Tetch  who  fell  unawares  into  the 
snare  set  by  their  OAvn  hands.  He  charged  home 
upon  every  man  holding  office,  or  entitled  to  a  vote, 
the  responsibility,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  of  every 
murder  and  outrage  committed  on  society  by  the 
agency  of  ardent  spirits;  and  concluded  his  short 
but  magnificent  argument,  by  an  appeal  to  the  social 
feelings  of  the  justice  and  spectator ;  describing  the 
condition  of  the  good  but  helpless  wife,  of  the  small 
children ;  of  the  young  man,  full  of  energy,  talent, 
and  health, —  his  future  of  respectability  and  useful- 
ness all  hanging  upon  their  decision ;  then  turned  to 
the  crowd,  and  for  a  few  minutes  poured  a  scathing 


THE    OLD    STILL-IIOUSK.  313 

fire  of  conderanation  on  their  sins  and  follies,  and 
sat  down  amid  shouts  of  applause,  which  the  justice 
could  hardly  subdue  into  silence. 

The  decision  was  '  not  guilty/  and  the  prisoner  wus 
released.  Twenty  minutes  before,  every  one  had  felt 
that  he  would  be  sent  back  to  jail  to  await  a  trial,  so 
strong  did  the  testimony  seem  against  him.  Such 
power  had  the  magic  words  of  eloquence. 

The  court  adjourned,  and  the  crowd  slowly  dis- 
persed, leaving  only  a  few  gathered  about  the  speaker 
and  his  client. 

For  the  first  time,  the  gentleman  noticed  Elsie, 
who  had  not  yet  risen  from  her  seat,  but  sat  quietly 
waiting  the  time  to  speak  to  her  brother-in-law.  He 
stepped  forward  and  reached  out  his  hand.  She 
placed  hers  in  his ;  whoever  he  might  be,  she  thanked 
him  in  her  heart. 

"Mrs.  Heath,  I  presume,"  said  he,  in  gentle 
tones. 

"  No  !"  was  the  answer  of  Elsie,  as  she  lifted  her 
veil  and  revealed  her  face.  ^ 

There  was  a  closer  pressure  of  the  hand.  The 
blood  left  the  cheek  —  the  lip  quivered  —  the  frame 
tottered,  and  the  manly  figure  staggered  into  the 
nearest  cliair,  murmuring,  "Elsie."  The  tongue 
could  say  no  more. 

"Oh,  Fred,  is  it  you?"  and  she  sprang  up  and 
bent  over  him. 

"  It  is  I,"  was  the  answer;  "  would  to  God  we  hml 
never  met." 

All  this  passed  so  quickly  among  the  crowd,  in  its 

27 


314  ELSIE    MAG  0  0  N. 

bustling  to  and  fro,  as  hardly  to  be  noticed ;  and 
Elsie  soon  turned  away  to  speak  to  Walter,  who 
seemed  bewildered,  and  scarce  knew  what  to  do. 
He  recognized  her  at  once,  and  allowed  her  to  lead 
him  away  without  resistance  to  a  carriage  at  the 
door. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

ELSIE  hurried  home  with  her  astonished  and  be- 
wildered brother-in-law.  Leaving  him  with 
Mary,  she  withdrew  to  the  unoccupied  front  parlor. 
The  night  winds  whistled  through  the  close<l  blinds, 
and  the  echoas  of  her  footfall,  as  she  walked  to  and 
fro  through  the  empty  room,  sounded  hollow  and 
mocking.  "Would  to  God  we  had  never  met?" 
rang  fearfully  in  her  ears.  Why  that  wish  ?  Why 
that  terrible  emotion?  Was  he  married, —  had  he 
forgotten  his  first  love,  taken  another  to  dwell  where 
she  once  ruled  supreme  ?  Why  wish  they  had  never 
met? 

How  grand  he  was ;  how  forcible  his  thoughts ; 
how  jast  his  conclusions;  how  withering  his  de- 
nunciation of  wrong.  Where  had  he  been,  through 
all  these  long  years?  It  must  be  that  he  had  for- 
gotten her,  or  he  would  have  returned  for  her  sake, 
long  ago. 

To  and  fro,  like  the  caged  lioness,  walked  the 
usually  calm  and  self-possessed  woman,  ^^deep, 
unstirred  fountains  of  years  were  troubled ;  the  faith 
and  trust  which  never  for  a  day  or  hour  had  faltered, 
were  driven  back  by  those  ominous  words:  "Would 
to  God  we  had  never  met ! " 

What  shall  I  do?"  she  aaked,  in  trembling  ac- 

(316) 


316  ELSIE    MAG  O  ON;    OF, 

cents,  as  If  to  some  invisible  spirit  who  could  answer 
her.  So  we  all  ask  in  our  hours  of  sorrow  and 
anguish  !  And  is  there  not  an  invisible  spirit  to 
answer  our  inquiries ;  the  spirit  of  God,  the  all-per- 
vading, all-satisfying  !  to  which  the  yearning  heart, 
after  all,  conscious  of  its  own  dependence,  turns  in- 
voluntarily. And  aid  comes  alway,  if  we  are  careful 
to  live  true  to  what  our  own  souls,  holding  this  con- 
ference with  the  highest,  tell  us  to  be  right. 

At  the  same  hour  and  moment,  another  was  pacing 
to  and  fro,  in  a  solitary  office  in  another  part  of  the 
city.  "What  shall  I  do?"  came  also  from  the  lips 
of  the  high-souled  man,  whose  frame  trembled  with 
its  inward  emotion,  and  whose  great  heart  was  beat- 
ing wildly,  with  its  new  and  strange  experience. 
"What  shall  I  do?"  and  a  voice  seemed  to  answer 
in  tones  of  authority, — "  Go  seek  the  woman  you 
have  loved  so  long, —  go  hear  from  her  own  lips  the 
story  of  her  broken  faith, —  ask  of  your  mother,  of 
your  father, —  old,  and  no  doubt  stricken  with  his 
own  violence  of  passion, — go  as  thou  would'st  have 
her  come  to  thee,  Fred  Hill, —  act  like  a  man;  as 
thou  art  above  all  meanness,  so  be  above  all  fear." 

"  It's  going  down  the  strate  I  am,  for  a  little.  Miss 
Magoon,"  said  the  faithful  Bettie,  thrusting  her  head 
inside^Hj  parlor -door,  "  and  shall  be  laving  the  key 
with  yese;  and  ye '11  plase  let  me  in  whin  I  get 
back."  So  saying,  she  handed  Elsie  the  key,  and 
the  hall-door  closed  with  a  bang. 

Elsie  continued  pacing  the  floor  of  her  solitary 
apartment,  absorbed  in  thought,  and  unconscious  of 


TUE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  317 

time,  until  she  was  startlwl  from  her  reverie  by  a 
vigorous  ring  of  the  doorbell.  Supposing  it  to  be 
Bettie,  she  stepped  out  and  unlocked  the  door.  As 
it  opened,  the  lamp  upon  the  opposite  corner  flashed 
into  her  face,  and  revealed  her  to  a  stranger,  who 
immediately  entered  and  extended  his  hand. 

She  placed  hers  iu  his,  and  he  asked,  in  tones  al- 
most inaudible. 

"  By  what  name  shall  I  address  my  once  valued 
friend,  Elsie  Magoon  ?  " 

"  The  one  you  knew  her  by,  long  years  ago,"  was* 
the  unwavering  reply. 

"Have  I  then  been  misinformed, — are  you  not 
married  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Let  me  reply  by  asking  you  the  same  question, 
Mr.  Hill."  Her  voice,  her  tone,  the  electric  thrill 
that  shot  instantly  through  his  whole  being,  told  all 
that  he  wished  to  know.  There  was  no  need  of 
labored  explanations.  Each  felt  that  the  other  had 
been  true,  and  without  further  word,  he  folded  her  to 
his  heart. 

"  My  own !  my  long-lost !  mine  forever ! "  burst 
from  his  lips.     And  she  answered,  "forever  !  " 

Shall  we  follow  them  farther, — shall  we  tell  the 
earnest  love  that  each  pledged  the  other  in  tliat  lone, 
desolate  room?  Shall  we  repeat  the  ^p|^  of  his 
wandering, — how  in  the  depths  of  his  despair,  when 
driven  from  home  and  friends,  he  had  enlisted  in  the 
Mexican  army?  Then  his  adventures  in  foreign 
lands ;  his  endeavor  to  return  home,  when  he  met  a 
person  who  told  him  that  Elaie  was  wedded  to  Liu- 
27* 


318  ELSIE   M  AGO  ON;    OR, 

coin,  which  made  him  resolve  to  remain  a  stranger 
from  his  people.  That,  striving  earnestly  for  wisdom, 
it  had  met  him  at  every  turn ;  wealth,  too,  seemed  to 
have  come  to  him  as  a  natural  heritage.  His  fine 
open  brow,  and  frank  manliness,  gained  him  stanch 
friends.  He  learned  the  language  and  lore  of 
many  lands,  and  used  them  in  the  best  service  of 
his  race;  and,  endeav^oring  to  atone  for  that  early 
fault  which  had  driven  him  forth  a  wanderer,  he  was 
temperate  in  all  things.  He  had  been  shipwrecked, 
imprisoned,  wounded,  and  robbed,  yet  his  faith  had 
never  deserted  him,  nor  his  hope  grown  dim.  For 
years,  Elsie  had  been  his  guiding  star.  But  when 
the  crushing  news  fell  upon  his  ear  that  she  had  wedded 
another,  he  only  blamed  himself  that  he  had  been  so 
long  a  wanderer.  He  had  written  and  re-written, 
but  as  no  letter  had  reached  her,  she,  of  course,  could 
never  answer;  his  letters  to  his  mother  and  sisters 
had  met  no  response ;  and  he  had  learned  to  feel  that 
he  was  alone  in  the  world.  Though  he  believed  Elsie 
married,  he  had  not  blamed  her.  But  her  purity  of 
thought  and  feeling,  her  strength  of  character,  were 
to  him  so  far  above  those  of  other  women,  that  he 
never  sought  to  fan  into  a  fresh  flame  the  smothered 
embers  of  a  first  love. 

SuclwBtthe  brief  history  of  those  long  years  of 
wandering  and  absence.  Now  they  had  met,  and 
though  standing  almost  upon  the  summit  of  life,  they 
found  no  diminution  of  that  deep  and  earnest  aflPec- 
tion  which  had  first  bound  them  together. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  ■  319 

"Oh!  shall  I  never  hear  of  him  again?"  moaned 
Mrs.  Deacon  Hill,  and  she  laid  her  head  on  the 
shoulder  of  Helen,  one  cold  September  evening. 
After  a  few  moments  of  silence  she  added.  "  Mrs. 
Magoon  told  me  to-day  that  she  looke<l  for  Elsie  by 
every  train,  and  there  is  the  whistle  now.  Somehow, 
when  I  think  of  her,  I  always  think  of  him." 

"  Hope  on,  dear  mother,"  replied  Helen ;  "  I  am 
not  willing  to  give  him  up  yet." 

A  low  sob  made  answer. 

"Do  you  think  we  should  know  him,  mother?" 
asked  Helen,  wishing  to  tui-n  her  mothers  thoughts 
in  a  more  cheerful  channel. 

"  Know  him,  Helen  ?  Does  a  mother  ever  forget  ?  " 
answered  Mrs.  Hill,  reproachfully. 

"  But  he  was  not  fully  grown,  mother ;  and  you 
know  William  Eldon  told  us,  seven  years  ago,  how 
much  he  had  changed." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  but  I  could  never  forget  those 
eves, — so  deep  and  full  of  meaning,  even  when  Fre<l 
was  a  baby.  I  used  to  tell  his  father  I  did  not  know 
how  we  came  to  have  so  beautiful  a  child.  I  often 
wished,  Helen,  it  had  been  you,  instead  of  Fred." 

"Why,  mother?"  answered  Helen,  with  a  silvery 
laugh,  more  sad  than  merry. 

"  Because,  Helen,  it  does  better  for  girls  to  be  pretty 
than  boys.  Handsome  girls  almost  always  find  good 
husbands." 

"  And  I  am  on  your  hands  yet,  and  over  thirty  !  " 
continued  Helen,  glad  to  make  her  mother  forget  the 
object  of  her  sorrow. 


820  ELSIE    MAG  0  ON;     OR, 

"  AVell,  as  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  "  I  am  sure  1 
ought  to  be  thankful  to  the  good  Father  for  giving 
you  a  homely  face,  or  maybe  I  might  have  been  left 
alone." 

"  Oh !  now,  mother,  that  is  too  bad,  to  credit  all 
toy  love  to  a  homely  face ;  and  now  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  a  secret,  just  to  pay  you  for  thinking  it  was 
my  want  of  beauty,  and  not  my  heart,  that  has  kept 
me  without  a  home  full  of  cares,  so  that  I  can  fly  to 
you  every  time  you  are  down  with  the  rheumatics." 

"Well,  well!  there  child,  — I  know;"  and  the 
mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  thought  of  ten 
years  of  careful  kindness  and  unwearying  affection 
from  her  noble  girl. 

"  You  don't  want  to  hear  my  secret,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  to  be  sure  I  do ;  only  I  thought  you 
were  taking  me  in  earnest." 

"  Not  at  all,  mother  dear.  Well,  I  have  not  had 
time  to  talk  with  you  since  I  came  home.  While  I 
was  with  Alice  Walters,  they  received  a  visit  from 
Mr.  Lincoln,  Elsie's  old  beau ;  and  we  had  a  nice 
trip  to  Nahant,  and  up  to  the  White  Mountains,  and 
all  around,  as  I  told  you  ;  only  I  did  not  tell  you  that 
Mr.  Lincoln  was  one  of  the  party.  We  were  together 
six  weeks ;  and  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  my  great 
hands,  so  used  to  hard  work,  or  my  plain  dress,  or 
my  homely  face,  that  attracted  him  ;  but  he  has  offered 
to  give  me  a  place  as  housekeeper  in  his  beautiful 
mansion  in  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 

"  You  did  n't  agree  to  go,  did  you  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Hill,  in  alarm. 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  321 

"Well  — yes,  mother;  if  you  and  father  are  willing." 

"Why,  child,  I  never  can  consent  to  your  going  out 
to  be  a  servant  for  anybody." 

"Wh«t!*fiot  in  a  marble  palace,  mother?"  asked 
Helen,  while  her  eyes  danced  with  a  mischievous 
light  that  her  mother's  spectacles  were  too  dull  to 
catch. 

"/don't  count  a  housekeeper  in  a  marble  palace 
any  higher  up,  Helen,  than  a  cook  in  a  good  old  brick 
house  like  this ;  and  I  'm  sure  there  is  enough  for  us 
all  here." 

"  Well,  mother,  suppose  I  say  he  offered  to  make 
me  the  lady  of  the  house — his  wife." 

"  Helen,  child,  what  makes  you  talk  so  ?  " 

"Because,  mother,  Mr.  Lincoln  has  ofFeral  me  his 
hand,  heart,  and  princely  fortune.  I  only  await  your 
consent." 

"  God  bless  the  child !  what  a  trick  she 's  been 
.playing  on  her  old  mother !  " 

The  Deacon,  who  was  ill,  had  been  dozing  on  the 
lounge ;  but  now,  as  it  approached  nine  o'clock,  he 
arose  and  came  to  the  fire,  laid  his  old,  time-worn 
Bible  upon  the  stand,  and  read  his  chapter  and  page 
with  fervent  heart,  closing  his  evening  supplication 
with  the  Lord's  Prayer.  When  he  came  to  the  clause, 
"  Forgive  us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors,"  his 
voice  trembled,  and  a  tear  rolled  from  the  eyelids, 
and  slid  down  the  furrowed  cheek.  The  mother 
sobbed,  and  Helen's  heart  was  touched.  As  he  c<:)n- 
cluded  the  last  words,  and  they  rose  from  their  knees, 
a  heavy  rap  at  the  door  startled  them. 


3S2  ELSIE  MA  GO  OS;    OB, 

"Who  can  that  be,  at  this  time  of  night?"  asked 
the  Deacon. 

"  MK]r  be  it^'s  Fred,"  gasped  his  wife ;  "  something 
has  been  telling  me  all  day  he '  d  come/' 

Heloi  had  gcme  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  A  tall 
steaB^O'  passed  by  her,  directlj  in,  betbre  the  blazing 
fife  of  the  sittir^-Toom. 

"  Oh !  Fred,  mj  child,  my  darling ! "  shrieked  the 
mofther;  and  before  he  had  passed  half  around  the 
Tomn,  the  aged  hand  was  resting  on  his  bosom,  and 
the  trembling  form  pressed  to  his  heart.  "  I  knew 
it  was  he !  I  knew  the  rap ! ''  exclaimed  the  mother, 
disengagUDg  hex9el£    ^^  Oh  I  £ither,  forgive  him." 

Her  words  wcfe  cat  short.  Fred  advanced  a  step 
towards  his  &iher,  and  siretdied  oat  his  arms.  With 
a  cry  of  angoidi,  the  old  man  Ml  prostrate  at 
Imfoet.  Frederidc  raised  him.  He  seined  dead; 
bat  on  foeling  his  poise,  he  was  still  alive.  It  was 
half  an  hoar  ere  the  old  man  diowed  any  agns  of 
cooscioas  life.  Slowly  he  opened  his  ^es,  and  gazing 
aroand  him  as  if  in  seardi  of  something,  ottered  the 
woids^ "  F<Mg^ve  him ! " 

"  Father,''  said  Helen,  pasang  h^*  hands  over  his 
cold  temples,  "  dear  fiither,  do  yoa  know  me  f 

"Where  is  he?"  fo^ly  gacnlated  the  old  man. 
"IMd  I  not  see  him — Fred — was  he  not  here?  I 
dreamed  he  came^  and  I  forgave  him.'' 

"  Fadfeear,  I  am  here,"  barst  firom  the  swelling  heart 
of  the  retomed  wanderer.  The  old  man  lifted  up 
his  arm,  as  if  to  embrace  him.  Fred  bent  down,  and 
the  qoivering  arm  clasped  his  neck,  while  the  low, 
hollow  voice  ottered, — 


THE    OLD    STILL-HOUSE.  323 

"  My  son,  my  son,  forgive  your  cruel  fatlier." 
"  My  father,  say  not  so ;  let  me  be  forgiven." 
"Oh,  God!   forgive  us  both,"  answeretl  the  old 
man  with  fervor,  and  swooned  away  again  upon  the 
breast  of  his  boy. 

It  was  some  hours  before  the  Deacon  fully  came  to 
himself,  and  became  conscious  of  tho  presence  of  Frctl. 
Never  was  a  heavier  load  lifted  from  any  man's  heart. 
Alas!  what  agony,  what  torture  pride  comi^els  the 
stubborn  soul  to  bear,  ere  it  will  allow  itself  to  yield 
to  the  power  of  conscience  and  acknowledge  a  wrong ! 
Slowly  the  old  man  recovered.  Never  was  man 
prouder  of  a  son.  Once,  and  once  only,  he  told  them 
all  how  he  had  suffered,  and  begged  them  to  forgive 
him,  and  allude  no  more  to  the  past 

It  is  five  years,  the  10th  of  October,  1858,  since 
Frederick  Hill  and  Elsie  Magoon  were  married,  and 
the  sunlight  of  wedded  love  beams  as  brightly  to-tlay 
in  their  home,  as  on  that  eventful  eve  when,  his  wan- 
derings passed  and  her  waitings  ended,  they  joined 
hands  to  live  and  love  till  death  should  part  them. 

Two  beautiful  children  claim  the  noble  mother's 
care,  and  find  a  nestling-place  in  the  grandmother's 
lap.  But  they  fill  not  all  the  measure  of  human  love 
in  the  hearts  of  either. 

Elsie,  the  elder,  still  pursues  the  even  tenor  of  her 
way, — still  bears  her  testimony  against  intemperance 
and  wrong,  and  implores  the  mothers  of  the  land  to 
be  up  and  doing  in  this  great  work  that  is  to  redeem 
80  many  millions  of  the  living,  and  of  those  yet  un- 
l)orn,  from  fearful  ruin. 


324  ELSIE   M  AGOG  N. 

Elsie,  the  younger,  finds  it  quite  as  easy  to  work 
for  the  world,  with  her  home,  and  husband,  and  babes, 
as  it  would  be  to  make  fashionable  calls,  or  go  to 
parties  and  operas,  and  quite  as  compatible  with  duty 
to  give  her  leisure  to  the  wants  of  others,  as  to  the 
amusement  of  herself.  She  still  perversely  insists  that 
it  takes  her  no  longer  to  make  a  lecture  than  to  listen 
while  Gen.  Gary,  or  John  B.  Gough,  or  Neal  Dow 
gives  one ;  and  that,  indeed,  it  costs  no  effort  to  pre- 
pare a  temperance  speech  :  "  Just  open  your  mouth," 
she  says,  "and  if  you  love  temperance  and  abhor 
intemperance,  thoughts  will  not  be  wanting ;  for  '  out 
of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth  will  speak.'  " 


THE   END. 


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IISnSTER   EOIME: 
POLITICAL,  RELIGIOUS,  AM)  SOCIAL 


BET.  C-  M.  BUTLER,  D.D., 

■  of  Beclesiastical  History  in  the  Divinity  School.  Phil- 
adelphia; aathor  of  "The  Book  of  Common  Prayer  inter- 
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JVmn  (&«  f%3mdetphiia  In<piirer. 
.    .     .    If»  ■tavern,  rotsiiie  vitbia  our  know^Ieilge  has  so  thor- 
'— ^liitji  entered  into  an  expoeition  of  the  ^TemoLeat  and  the  aocial 
BMilitriin  of  Rome. 

Frwm  th*  Cini.immmti  Gazette. 
The  boo^k  is  the  resslk  ef  poanaal  oiserr»tioa  as  veil  »3  the  eare- 
fiil  stttdy  of  (iocuraeiits  only  made  ptibRc  since  the  sarrea^er  ©f  the 
Yeaitlan  capital  to  Victor  Emaianael.  Hence  we  find  diadesam  of 
long  pennLcted  wrong,  oppression,  and  croclty,  that  startle  as  eren 
£h  this  liay  when  rebellioa  has  girea  so  bloody  a  record  of  crime.  It 
id  the  duty  of  every  man  to  icadaToloBe  so  opportune,  and  which  so 
deaEiy  tBdieates  that  the  Old  ITorM  is  aboat  to  pass  through  an  or- 
daal  ■«■  seveie.  if  possible,  than  that  in  which  oar  own  land  and 
peofile  kave  been  tried,  and.  we  trust,  purified.  We  commend  the 
'  to  the  student,  the  politician,  and  the  practical  man. 


From  the  Eev.  Dr.  S.  I.  Prime. 
.    .    .    5o  book  on  Rome  or  Popery  has  met  my  eye  so  well  fitted 
ta  shorn  the  world  what  Romanism  is  at  Rome,  as  this  book  of  yoors. 

From  J>t<ii/<i  Advocate  Gnnerttl  Holt. 
Xj  dear  sir :  I  write  to  thank  yoa  sincerely  for  the  vohime  "  Inner 
Bwr  "  ...  I  have  read  it  carefully  and  with  much  interest  and 
iailiaetiiHi,  aad  think  you  have  done  your  friends  and  the  country  a 
gaad  Mnite  ia  tims  presenting  to  them  the  results  of  your  dUigeut 
itmij  cf  tlw  j^iacqiias  aad  policy  and  habits  of  those  who  have  now 
tta  ^amt^BmrneM^  oiTthis  ''loae  mother  of  dead  empices."  Be  assured 
that  I  shaB  pcsie  tike  oSenag  alike  for  its  ««■  westh  aad  as  a  tokea 
af  llnl  tiiijiiiliilhif  wikk  vbiek  yoa  kaire  a»  eaaataatlr  WaawJ  mK, 
aad  vbieii  I  ^adljr  aadL  giateSai^  rae^aaeala. 

Fnm  Ac  JBcr.  nmwHm  Bmmr,  DJ>. 

Biy  immr  Br.  Botler :  .  .  .  I  aaa  hosy  with  your  work,  and  find 
H  ezaaeiia^y  interesting  aad  iaatraetive.  One  likes  to  get  a  view  of 
fte  iateraor  teomt  o>ne  who  kawas  iH  s»  well  as  yoa  do  ;  as  for  a  trav- 
dv,EikBmjadl!^Wisa<9«<|aafifie4  for  tbe  taA  at  iJ^aai  kk  pn 
caa  eaJif  dnCck  extexiMS.  Tm  kav«  seem  a  great  deal  Wfk  of  Keaae 
laaar  aad  KMae  Oakcr,  aadi  it  is  pfaaaaat  to  be  introduced  by  yoa 
,  uaA  aarttfcgr,  aad  amnthgr 


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"The  Grand  Addition  to  the  Geography  of  Inner  Africa 
made  by  Mr.  Baker." 

SiE  Roderick  I.  Mubchison,  Baet. 

\  JUST  READY. 

In  1  vol.  8vo.    Cloth.    Price,  $6.00. 

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Cooper,  from  Sketches  by  Mr.  Baker;  and  a  Chromo-litho- 
graph  Frontispiece  of  the  Great  Lake  from  which  the  Nile 
flows,  and  Portraits  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Baker,  beautifully  en- 
graved on  steel,  by  Jeens,  after  photographs: 

THE    ALBERT     NYANZA, 

GREAT  BASIN  OF  THE  NILE. 

EXPLORATIONS  OF  THE  NILE  SOURCES. 


SAMUEL    WHITE    BAKEE,    H.A.F.R.O.S., 

And  Oold  MedallUt  of  the  Royal  Qeographical  Society. 


In  the  history  of  the  Nile  there  waa  a  void :  its  sourees  wore  • 
mystery.  The  Ancients  devoted  much  attention  to  this  problem,  but 
in  vain.  The  Emperor  Nero  sent  an  expedition  under  tbo  command 
of  two  centurions,  as  det!cribed  by  Seneca.  Even  Roman  energy 
failed  to  break  the  spell  that  guarded  these  secret  fountains.  The 
expedition  sent  by  Mchemct  Ali  Pa-sha,  the  celebrated  Viceroy  of 
Egypt,  closed  a  long  term  of  unsucccsuful  search. 

The  work  has  now  been  accomplished.  Three  English  parties,  and 
only  three,  have,  at  various  periods,  started  upon  this  obscure  mis- 
sion ;  each  has  gained  its  end. 

Bruce  won  the  source  of  the  Blue  Nile;  Speke  and  Graxt  won 
the  Victoria  source  of  the  great  White  Nile ;  and  I  have  been  per- 
mitted to  succeed  in  completing  the  Nile  sources  by  the  discovery  of 
the  great  reservoir  of  tbo  eiiuatorial  waters,  the  Albert  Nyansa,  from 
which  the  river  issues  as  the  entire  White  Nile. 

The  journey  is  long,  the  countries  savage ;  there  are  no  ancieni 
histories  to  charm  the  present  with  memories  of  the  post;  all  is  wild 
and  brutal,  hard  and  nnfocling,  devoid  of  that  holy  instinct  instilled 
by  nature  into  the  heart  of  man — the  belief  in  a  Supreme  Being.  In 
that  remote  witdemess  in  Central  Equatorial  Africa  are  the  SouroM 
of  the  Nile. — Pre/ae«. 


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The  History  of  Usury,  from  the  Earliest  Period  to  the 
Present  Time. 
Together  with  a  brief  Statement  of  General  Principles  con- 
cerning the  subject  in  different  States  and  CountricH;  iiiid 
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Mr.  Murray,  in  the  very  interesting  volume  before  us,  contends, 
we  think  justly,  that  these  usury  laws  embarrass  business,  chock 
enterprise,  and  oflTcr  a  premium  for  unfair  dealing,  and  strongly  com- 
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atively brief  compass,  a  mass  of  information  on  this  subject  nowhere 
else  to  be  met  with.     As  a  manual  for  the  guide  of  reformers  in  the 
United  States  it  is  of  value,  but  as  an  historical  monograph  it  cannot 
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torian for  its  curious  facts,  and  its  indirect  references  to  curious 
social  problems. —  Trubner'i  Literary  Record. 

Oerise :  A  Tale  of  the  Last  Oentury. 

By  G.  J.  WiiTTE  Melville,  author  of  "The  Gladiators," 
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heels  of  each  other.  The  French  and  English  characters  of  the  last 
oentury  do  good  duty  in  illustrating  the  sense  of  the  Saxon  and  the 
elegant  frivolity  of  the  modern  Gaul. — Button  Pott. 

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to  the  talc. — North  American. 

The  Story  of  Gisli  the  Outlaw. 

From  the  Icelandic.      By  Georok  Wkbbi  BAaiNT,  D.C.L. 
With  illustrations  by  C.  E.  St.  John   Mildmay.      1  vol. 
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stylo  of  the  art  of  book-making. 

Hidden  Depths. 

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This  book  is  not  a  work  of  flotton  in  the  ordinary  aoooptation  of 
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den depths,"  of  which  it  reveals  a  glimpse,  are  not  fit  subjects  for  a 
romance. — Pre/act. 


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and  Prospects  of  America. 
Aaeertaiited  during  a  yisit  to  the  States  in  the  aatamn  of 
1865.     By  Si»  S.  Mortos  Peto.  Bart.,  M.P.  for  Bri^toL 
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*  •  *  It  will  be  oTMerred  that  I  hare  ear  folly  eoafined  myself 
t«  My  ■ubjeet — the  '*  Resoc«cis  ajtd  Prospects  or  Axerica."  A« 
fir  as  pooBible  I  hare  aroidedall  poUticakl  alliuton:^:  and  I  hare  not 
attoBipted  any  descriptions  of  the  eoanCry,  or  of  the  manners  and 
habits  of  the  people,  which  hare  been  rendered  familiar  to  as  by  fSu' 
abler  writers  than  mjsclf.  That  which  I  hare  been  anxioos  to  afford 
By  leUow-e«NiBtzysMa  is  as  opportanity  of  forming  a  more  eorreot 
JBigHMBk  tbsa  that  at  vhieh  many  have  hitherto  arriTed,  of  the 
ftngnam,  MfiiiT,  aad  ptobable  fntore  of  the  great  nation  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  with  which,  I^  vrtsrj  tie  of  &atemity,  we 
ought  to  be  so  eloeely  alUeX — /Ve/eet^ 

Chambers's  Encfclopaedia. 

A  Dictionary  of  UniTersal  Knowledge  for  the  People,  on  the 
basis  of  the  German  Conyersations- Lexicon.  Illustrated 
with  Maps  and  ntuaeroos  Wood  Engrayings.  Published 
ni  parts.  Price  25  cents  each.  The  whole  to  be  eompriaed 
in  Bine  xolnmes  rojml  octaro.  Eight  Toluraes  now  ready. 
This  is  the  only  authorized  edition  that  wiU  be  published 
in  America.  Price,  per  Tolume,  cloth,  $4.50;  sheep,  $5.00; 
half  Turkey,  $5.50. 

Fkos  R.  Shkltox  Maceksxix,  D.CJL, 
JMiter  ofJSiaeUm  liwtrww'aiigj  cfc. 

Upon  its  Btnaiy  ■initu — its  eoatpMenen:  and  aaeaiaey,  and  the 
exteat  andTarwty  of  its  iafiMraatioa — theie  eaa  be  only  one  ofouMB. 
The  work  is  worthy  of  &•  high  aim  and  established  repatatioa  ef 
itsproje^MS.  Art  and  mjtmutf  thsolegy  and  JMiqpiiad«ac«^  natarsi 
kistoiy  and  mBbifkjma,  tapafciaphy  and  gaignrnkj,  — dirine  and 
aatSqaitiea,  biography  and  bdkii  ktliiu,  aie  all  diwaiiiwd  here,  not 
in  long  treatises,  bat  to  an  extent  mSaBBttogirereqainte  informa- 
tion,  at  a  glance  as  it  were.  SoaMtni^  when  the  nibjeet  jastifies 
it,  ^mre  auaate  liftiilii  are  given.  *  *  •  Its  faUncas  a^pon  Ammn- 
can  laliimtiii  a^gjhi  to  WMMsad  it  wipwislty  in  this  eoaatiy,  and 
its  knr  prise  nuikas  it  one  of  the  eheapost  and  Most  aeeesahla  voKks 
erer  published. 

Fnox  BowanB  Httchcock,  DJ).,  LLJ)., 
Lmts  jrVwidia*  ofAmkgnt  CM  ft. 
I  hare  laokad  &s  worit  over  as  attsntiv^  as  aty  tisaa  weald  allow, 
and  it  appeais  to  mtt  wdl  adapted  to  the  objects  in  riew.  Jadgiag 
frem  thsBS  aitides  on  whidi  I  led  Most  qaaI£Bed  to  give  an  epiaioa, 
the  weik  seoMS  to  He  to  he  prepared  hy  saen  tikmoagUy  neqaaiatsd 
with  the  stBljaelsahontwUBh  they  write;  and  the  whola  wosfc  i 
pcoTe  a  cheap  and  iavalaaUe  seaica  ef  iaBw  ■■♦!«■  to  i  ~ 
elaaa  ef  the  eoaanaiity. 


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